r  LIBPARY 


UN  IV    .     TY  OF 
CAL'F      'NIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


385Wash'n  St. Boston 


^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/atlargebensonOObensiala 


BY 

ARTHUR    G.   BENSON 

FELLOW   OF  MAGDALENE   COLLEGE 
CAMBRIDGR 

THE  UPTON    LETTERS 

FROM   A  COLLEGE 
WINDOW 

BESIDE  STILL  WATERS 

THE  ALTAR  FIRE 

THE    SCHOOLMASTER 

AT  LARGE 


AT     LARGE 


\ 


BY 

ARTHUR    CHRISTOPHER     BENSON 

FELLOW    OF   MAGDALENE   COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE 
AUTHOR  OF   "tHB   UPTON   LKTTKRS,"   ETC. 


I/^C  EGO  MECUM 


G.   P.    PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

Ube  f!nict;erboc{{er  press 
1909 


COPVRIGHT,    1908 
BY 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 

Published,  October,  1908; 
Reprinted,  October,  1908 
Reprinted,  January,  igog 


TTbe  ftnfcfterbocfect  Drc8«,  "Hew  JPorli 


Certain  of  the  essays  in  this  collection  have 
already  been  published  in  Putnam's  Monthly 


Contents 

CHAPTER 

PACK 

I. 

The  Scene       .          . 

I 

II. 

Contentment     • 

24 

III. 

Friendship 

•        47 

IV. 

Humour 

72 

V. 

Travel 

95 

VI. 

Specialism 

120 

VII. 

Our  Lack  of  Great  Men 

146 

VIII. 

Shyness 

173 

IX. 

Equality         .          .          .          , 

197 

X. 

The  Dramatic  Sense 

217 

XI. 

Kelmscott        and        William 

[ 

Morris         .          . 

240 

XII. 

A  Speech  Day 

264 

XIII. 

Literary  Finish 

290 

XIV. 

A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream 

3^3 

vi 

Contents 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XV. 

Symbols 

•     33-^ 

XVI. 

Optimism 

'     351 

XVII. 

Joy          .         .         . 

.     374 

XVIII. 

The  Love  of  God    . 

•     395 

Epilogue    ■     . 

416 

AT    LARGE 


At     Large 
I 

The  Scene 

YESj  of  course  it  is  an  experiment!  But 
it  is  made  in  corpore  vili.  It  is  not 
irreparable,  and  tliere  is  no  reason,  more 's  the 
pity,  why  I  should  not  please  myself.  I  will 
ask — it  is  a  rhetorical  question  which  needs 
no  answer — what  is  a  hapless  bachelor  to  do, 
who  is  professionally  occupied  and  tied  down 
in  a  certain  place  for  just  half  the  year? 
What  is  he  to  do  with  the  other  half?  I  can- 
not live  on  in  my  college  rooms,  and  I  am  not 
compelled  to  do  so  for  economy.  I  have  near 
relations  and  many  friends,  at  whose  houses  I 
should  be  made  welcome.  But  I  cannot  be 
like  the  wandering  dove,  who  found  no  re- 
pose. I  have  a  great  love  of  my  independence 
and  my  liberty.  I  love  my  own  fireside,  my 
own  chair,  my  own  books,  my  own  way.    It 


2  At  Large 

is  little  short  of  torture  to  have  to  conform  to 
the  rules  of  other  households,  to  fall  in  with 
other  people's  arrangements,  to  throw  my 
pen  down  when  the  gong  sounds,  to  make  my- 
self agreeable  to  fortuitous  visitors,  to  be  led 
whither  I  would  not.  I  do  this,  a  very  little, 
because  I  do  not  desire  to  lose  touch  with  my 
kind;  but  then  my  work  is  of  a  sort  which 
brings  me  into  close  touch  day  after  day  with 
all  sorts  of  people,  till  I  crave  for  recollection 
and  repose;  the  prospect  of  a  round  of  visits 
is  one  that  fairly  unmans  me.  No  doubt  it 
implies  a  certain  want  of  vitality,  but  one  does 
not  increase  one's  vitality  by  making  over- 
drafts upon  it;  and  then,  too,  I  am  a  slave  to 
my  pen,  and  the  practice  of  authorship  is  in- 
consistent with  paying  visits. 

Of  course,  the  obvious  remedy  is  marriage; 
but  one  cannot  marry  from  prudence,  or  from 
a  sense  of  duty,  or  even  to  increase  the  birth- 
rate, which  I  am  concerned  to  see  is  diminish- 
ing. I  am,  moreover,  to"  be  perfectly  frank, 
a  transcendentalist  on  the  subject  of  marriage. 
I  know  that  a  happy  marriage  is  the  finest  and 
noblest  thing  in  the  world,  and  I  would  resign 
all  the  conveniences  I  possess  with  the  utmost 


The  Scene  3 

readiness  for  it.  But  a  great  passion  cannot 
be  the  result  of  reflection,  or  of  desire,  or  even 
of  hope.  One  cannot  argue  oneself  into  it; 
one  must  be  carried  away.  "  You  have  never 
let  yourself  go,"  says  a  wise  and  gentle  aunt, 
when  I  bemoan  my  unhappy  fate.  To  which 
I  reply  that  I  have  never  done  anything  else. 
I  have  lain  down  in  streamlets,  I  have  leapt 
into  silent  pools,  I  have  made  believe  I  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  deep  emotion,  like  the 
dear  little  girl  in  one  of  Reynolds's  pictures, 
who  hugs  a  fat  and  lolling  spaniel  over  an 
inch-deep  trickle  of  water,  for  fear  he  should 
be  drowned.  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  not  my 
fault.  It  is  my  fault,  my  own  fault,  my  own 
great  fault,  as  we  say  in  the  Compline  confes- 
sion. The  fault  has  been  an  over-sensibility. 
I  have  desired  close  and  romantic  relations  so 
much  that  I  have  dissipated  my  forces;  yet 
when  I  read  such  a  book  as  the  love-letters  of 
Robert  Browning  and  Elizabeth  Barrett,  I 
realise  at  once  both  the  supreme  nature  of  the 
gift,  and  the  hopelessness  of  attaining  it  un- 
less it  be  given;  but  I  try  to  complain,  as  the 
beloved  mother  of  Carlyle  said  about  her 
health,  as  little  as  possible. 


4  At  Large 

Well,  then,  as  I  say,  what  is  a  reluctant 
bachelor  who  loves  his  liberty  to  do  with  him- 
self? I  cannot  abide  the  life  of  towns,  though 
I  live  in  a  town  half  the  year.  I  like  friends, 
and  I  do  not  care  for  acquaintances.  There 
is  no  conceivable  reason  why,  in  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure,  I  should  frequent  social  enter- 
tainments that  do  not  amuse  me.  What  have 
I  then  done?  I  have  done  what  I  liked  best. 
I  have  taken  a  big  roomy  house  in  the  quietest 
country  I  could  find.  I  have  furnished  it 
comfortably,  and  I  have  hitherto  found  no 
difficulty  in  inducing  my  friends,  one  or  two 
at  a  time,  to  come  and  share  my  life.  I  shall 
have  something  to  say  about  solitude  presently, 
but  meanwhile  I  will  describe  my  hermitage. 

The  old  Isle  of  Ely  lies  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  Fens.  It  is  a  range  of  low  gravel  hills, 
shaped  roughly  like  a  human  hand.  The  river 
runs  at  the  wrist,  and  Ely  stands  just  above 
it,  at  the  base  of  the  palm,  the  fingers  stretch- 
ing out  to  the  west.  The  fens  themselves,  vast 
peaty  plains,  the  bottoms  of  the  old  lagoons, 
made  up  of  the  accumulation  of  centuries  of 
rotting  water-plants,  stretch  round  it  on  every 
side;  far  away  you  can  see  the  low  heights  of 


The  Scene  5 

Brandon,  the  Newmarket  Downs,  the  Gogma- 
gogs  behind  Cambridge,  the  low  wolds  of 
Huntingdon.  To  the  north  the  interminable 
plain,  through  which  the  rivers  welter  and  the 
great  levels  run,  stretches  up  to  the  Wash. 
So  slight  is  the  fall  of  the  land  towards  the 
sea,  that  the  tide  steals  past  me  in  the  huge 
Hundred-foot  cut,  and  makes  itself  felt  as  far 
south  as  Earith  Bridge,  where  the  Ouse  comes 
leisurely  down  with  its  clear  pools  and  reed- 
beds.  At  the  extremity  of  the  southernmost 
of  all  the  fingers  of  the  Isle,  a  big  hamlet  clus- 
ters round  a  great  ancient  church,  whose  blunt 
tower  is  visible  for  miles  above  its  grove  of 
sycamores.  More  than  twelve  centuries  ago 
an  old  saint,  whose  name  I  think  was  Owen 
— though  it  was  Latinised  by  the  monks  into 
Ovinus,  because  he  had  the  care  of  the  sheep, 
— ^kept  the  flocks  of  St.  Etheldreda,  queen  and 
abbess  of  Ely,  on  these  wolds.  One  does  not 
know  what  were  the  visions  of  this  rude  and 
ardent  saint,  as  he  paced  the  low  heights  day 
by  day,  looking  over  the  monstrous  lakes.  At 
night  no  doubt  he  heard  the  cries  of  the 
marsh-fowl  and  saw  the  elfin  lights  stir  on 
the  reedy  flats.    Perhaps  some  touch  of  fever 


6  At  Large 

kindled  his  visions ;  but  he  raised  a  tiny  shrine 
here,  and  here  he  laid  his  bones;  and  long 
after,  when  the  monks  grew  rich,  they  raised 
a  great  church  here  to  the  memory  of  the 
shepherd  of  the  sheep,  and  beneath  it,  I  doubt 
not,  he  sleeps. 

What  is  it  I  see  from  my  low  hills?  It  is 
an  enchanted  land  for  me,  and  I  lose  myself 
in  wondering  how  it  is  that  no  one,  poet  or 
artist,  has  ever  wholly  found  out  the  charm 
of  these  level  plains,  with  their  rich  black 
soil,  their  straight  dykes,  their  great  drift- 
roads,  that  run  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
into  the  unvisited  fen.  In  summer  it  is  a  feast 
of  the  richest  green  from  verge  to  verge;  here 
a  clump  of  trees  stands  up,  almost  of  the  hue 
of  indigo,  surrounding  a  lonely  shepherd's 
cote;  a  distant  church  rises,  a  dark  tower  over 
the  hamlet  elms;  far  beyond,  I  see  low  wolds, 
streaked  and  dappled  by  copse  and  wood;  far 
to  the  southj  I  see  the  towers  and  spires  of 
Cambridge,  as  of  some  spiritual  city — the 
smoke  rises  over  it  on  still  days,  hanging  like 
a  cloud;  to  the  east  lie  the  dark  pine-woods  of 
Suffolk,  to  the  north  an  interminable  fen;  but 
not  only  is  it  that  one  sees  a  vast  extent  of 


The  Scene  7 

sky,  with  great  cloud-battalions  crowding  up 
from  the  south,  but  all  the  colour  of  the  land- 
scape is  crowded  into  a  narrow  belt  to  the 
eye,  which  gives  it  an  intensity  of  emerald 
hue  that  I  have  seen  nowhere  else  in  the  world. 
There  is  a  sense  of  deep  peace  about  it  all,  the 
herb  of  the  field  just  rising  in  its  place  over 
the  wide  acres;  the  air  is  touched  with  a  lazy 
fragrance,  as  of  hidden  flowers;  and  there  is 
a  sense,  too,  of  silent  and  remote  lives,  of  men 
that  glide  quietly  to  and  fro  in  the  great  pas- 
tures, going  quietly  about  their  work  in  a 
leisurely  calm. 

In  the  winter  it  is  fairer  still,  if  one  has 
a  taste  for  austerity.  The  trees  are  leafless 
now;  and  the  whole  flat  is  lightly  washed 
with  the  most  delicate  and  spare  tints,  the 
pasture  tinted  with  the  yellowing  bent,  the 
pale  stubble,  the  rich  plough-land,  all  blend- 
ing into  a  subdued  colour;  and  then,  as  the 
day  declines  and  the  plain  is  rimmed  with  a 
frosty  mist,  the  smouldering  glow  of  the  orange 
sunset  begins  to  burn  clear  on  the  horizon, 
the  gray  laminated  clouds  becoming  ridged 
with  gold  and  purple,  till  the  whole  fades,  like 
a  shoaling  sea,  into  the  purest  green,  while 


8  At  Large 

the  cloud-banks  grow  black  and  ominous,  and 
far-oflf  lights  twinkle  like  stars  in  solitary 
farms. 

Of  the  house  itself,  exteriorly,  perhaps  the 
less  said  the  better;  it  was  built,  by  an  earl 
to  whom  the  estate  belonged,  as  a  shooting- 
box.  I  have  often  thought  that  it  must  have 
been  ordered  from  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores. 
It  is  of  yellow  brick,  blue-slated,  and  there 
has  been  a  pathetic  feeling  after  giving  it  a 
meanly  Gothic  air;  it  is  ill-placed,  shut  in  by 
trees,  approached  only  by  a  very  dilapidated 
farm-road;  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  a  curi- 
ous and  picturesque  house  was  destroyed  to 
build  it.  It  stands  in  what  was  once  a  very 
pretty  and  charming  little  park,  with  an 
ancient  avenue  of  pollard  trees,  lime  and  elm. 
You  can  see  the  old  terraces  of  the  Hall,  the 
mounds  of  ruins,  the  fish-ponds,  the  grass- 
grown  pleasance.  It  is  pleasantly  timbered, 
and  I  have  an  orchard  of  honest  fruit-trees  of 
my  own.  First  of  all  I  suspect  it  was  a  Ro- 
man fort;  for  the  other  day  my  gardener 
brought  me  in  half  of  the  handle  of  a  fine  old 
Roman  water-jar,  red  pottery  smeared  with 
plaster,  with  two  pretty  laughing  faces  pinched 


The  Scene  9 

lightly  out  under  the  volutes.  A  few  days 
after  I  felt  like  Polycrates  of  Samos,  that 
over-fortunate  tyrant,  when,  walking  myself 
in  my  garden,  I  descried  and  gathered  up 
the  rest  of  the  same  handle,  the  fractures  fit- 
ting exactly.  There  are  traces  of  Roman  oc- 
cupation hereabouts  in  mounds  and  earth- 
works. Not  long  ago  a  man  ploughing  in  the 
fen  struck  an  old  red  vase  up  with  the  share, 
and  searching  the  place  found  a  number  of 
the  same  urns  within  the  space  of  a  few  yards, 
buried  in  the  peat,  as  fresh  as  the  day  they 
were  made.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be 
found,  and  the  place  was  under  water  till  fifty 
years  ago;  so  that  it  must  have  been  a  boat- 
load of  pottery  being  taken  in  to  market  that 
was  swamped  there,  how  many  centuries  ago! 
But  there  have  been  stranger  things  than  that 
found:  half  a  mile  away,  where  the  steep 
gravel  hill  slopes  down  to  the  fen,  a  man  hoe- 
ing brought  up  a  bronze  spear-head.  He  took 
it  up  to  the  lord  of  the  manor,  who  was  in- 
terested in  curiosities.  The  squire  hurried  to 
the  place  and  had  it  all  dug  out  carefully; 
quite  a  number  of  spear-heads  were  found,  and 
a  beautiful  bronze  sword,  with  the  holes  where 


lo  At  Large 

the  leather  straps  of  the  handle  passed  in  and 
out.  I  have  held  this  fine  blade  in  my  hands, 
and  it  is  absolutely  undinted.  It  may  be 
Roman,  but  it  is  probably  earlier.  Nothing 
else  was  found,  except  some  mouldering  frag- 
ments of  wood  that  looked  like  spear-staves; 
and  this,  too,  it  seems,  must  have  been  a  boat- 
load of  warriors,  perhaps  some  raiding  party, 
swamped  on  the  edge  of  the  lagoon  with  all 
their  unused  weapons,  which  they  were  pre- 
sumably unable  to  recover,  if  indeed  any  sur- 
vived to  make  the  attempt.  Hard  by  is  the 
place  where  the  great  fight  related  in  Eere- 
ward  the  Wake  took  place.  The  Normans 
were  encamped  southwards  at  Willingham, 
where  a  line  of  low  entrenchments  is  still 
known  as  Belsar's  Field,  from  Belisarius,  the 
Norman  duke  in  command.  It  is  a  quiet  place 
enough  now,  and  the  yellow-hammers  sing 
sweetly  and  sharply  in  the  thick  thorn  hedges. 
The  Normans  made  a  causeway  of  faggots  and 
earth  across  the  fen,  but  came  at  last  to  the 
old  channel  of  the  Ouse,  which  they  could  not 
bridge,  and  here  they  attempted  to  cross  in 
great  flat-bottomed  boats,  but  were  foiled  by 
Hereward  and  his  men,  their  boats  sunk,  and 


The  Scene  ii 

hundreds  of  stout  warriors  drowned  in  the 
oozy  river-bed.  There  still  broods  for  me  a 
certain  horror  over  the  place,  where  the  river 
in  its  confined  channel  now  runs  quietly,  by 
sedge  and  willow-herb  and  golden-rod,  between 
its  high  flood  banks,  to  join  the  Cam  to  the 
east. 

But  to  return  to  my  house.  It  was  once  a 
monastic  grange  of  Ely,  a  farmstead  with  a 
few  rooms,  no  doubt,  where  sick  monks  and 
ailing  novices  were  sent  to  get  change  of  air 
and  a  taste  of  country  life.  There  is  a  bit  of 
an  old  wall  bordering  my  garden,  and  a  strip 
of  pale  soil  runs  across  the  gooseberry  beds, 
pale  with  dust  of  mortar  and  chips  of  brick, 
where  another  old  wall  stood.  There  was  a 
great  pigeon-house  here,  pulled  down  for  the 
shooting-box,  and  the  garden  is  still  full  of 
old  carved  stones,  lintels,  and  mullions,  and 
capitals  of  pillars,  and  a  grotesque  figure  of 
a  bearded  man,  with  a  tunic  confined  round 
the  waist  by  a  cord,  which  crowns  one  of  my 
rockeries.  But  it  is  all  gone  now,  and  the 
pert  cockneyfied  house  stands  up  among  the 
shrubberies  and  walnuts,  surveying  the  ruins 
of  what  has  been. 


12  At  Large 

But  I  must  not  abuse  my  house,  because, 
whatever  it  is  outside,  it  is  absolutely  com- 
fortable and  convenient  within;  it  is  solid, 
well  built,  spacious,  sensible,  reminding  one  of 
the  "  solid  joys  and  lasting  treasure "  that 
the  hymn  says  "  none  but  Zion's  children 
know."  And,  indeed,  it  is  a  Zion  to  be  at 
ease  in. 

One  other  great  charm  it  has:  from  the  end 
of  my  orchard  the  ground  falls  rapidly  in  a 
great  pasture.  Some  six  miles  away,  over  the 
dark  expanse  of  Grunty  Fen,  the  towers  of 
Ely,  exquisitely  delicate  and  beautiful,  crown 
the  ridge;  on  clear  sunny  days  I  can  see  the 
sun  shining  on  the  lead  roofs,  and  the  great 
octagon  rises  with  all  its  fretted  pinnacles. 
Indeed,  so  kind  is  Providence,  that  the  huge 
brick  mass  of  the  Ely  water-tower,  like  an 
overgrown  temple  of  Vesta,  blends  itself 
pleasantly  with  the  cathedral,  projecting  from 
the  western  front  like  a  great  Galilee. 

The  time  to  make  pious  pilgrimage  to  Ely 
is  when  the  apple-orchards  are  in  bloom. 
Then  the  grim  western  tower,  with  its  sombre 
windows,  the  gabled  roofs  of  the  canonical 
houses,  rise  in  picturesque  masses  over  acres 


The  Scene  13 

of  white  blossom.  But  for  me,  six  miles  away, 
the  cathedral  is  a  never-ending  sight  of  beauty. 
On  moist  days  it  draws  nearer,  as  if  carved 
out  of  a  fine  blue  stone;  on  a  gray  day  it  looks 
more  like  a  fantastic  crag,  with  pinnacles  of 
rock.  Again  it  will  loom  a  ghostly  white 
against  a  thunder-laden  sky.  Grand  and  pa- 
thetic at  once,  for  it  stands  for  something  that 
we  have  parted  with.  What  was  the  outward 
and  stately  form  of  a  mighty  idea,  a  rich 
system,  is  now  little  more  than  an  SBSthetic 
symbol.  It  has  lost  heart,  somehow,  and  its 
significance  only  exists  for  ecclesiastically  or 
artistically  minded  persons;  it  represents  a 
force  no  longer  in  the  front  of  the  battle. 

One  other  fine  feature  of  the  countryside 
there  is,  of  which  one  never  grows  tired.  If 
one  crosses  over  to  Sutton,  with  its  huge 
church,  the  tower  crowned  with  a  noble  octa- 
gon, and  the  village  pleasantly  perched  along 
a  steep  ridge  of  orchards,  one  can  drop  down 
to  the  west,  past  a  beautiful  old  farmhouse 
called  Berristead,  with  an  ancient  chapel, 
built  into  the  homestead,  among  fine  elms. 
The  road  leads  out  upon  the  fen,  and  here  run 
two   great   levels,   as   straight   as   a   line   for 


14  At  Large 

many  miles,  np  which  the  tide  pulsates  day 
by  day;  between  them  lies  a  wide  tract  of  pas- 
ture called  the  Wash,  which  in  summer  is  a 
vast  grazing-ground  for  herds,  in  rainy  weather 
a  waste  of  waters,  like  a  great  estuary — ^north 
and  south  it  runs,  crossed  by  a  few  roads  or 
black-timbered  bridges,  the  fen-water  pouring 
down  to  the  sea.  It  is  great  place  for  birds 
this.  The  other  day  I  disturbed  a  brood  of 
redshanks  here,  the  parent  birds  flying  round 
and  round,  piping  mournfully,  almost  within 
reach  of  my  hand.  A  little  farther  down,  not 
many  months  ago,  there  was  observed  a  great 
commotion  in  the  stream,  as  of  some  big  beast 
swimming  slowly;  the  level  was  netted,  and 
they  hauled  out  a  great  sturgeon,  who  had 
somehow  lost  his  way  and  was  trying  to  find 
a  spawning-ground.  There  is  an  ancient  cus- 
tom that  all  sturgeon  netted  in  English  wa- 
ters belong  by  right  to  the  sovereign;  but  no 
claim  was  advanced  in  this  case.  The  line 
between  Ely  and  March  crosses  the  level,  far 
ther  north,  and  the  huge  freight-trains  go 
smoking  and  clanking  over  the  fen  all  day. 
I  often  walk  along  the  grassy  flood-bank  for 
a  mile  or  two,  to  the  tiny  decayed  village  of 


The  Scene  15 

Mepal,  with  a  little  ancient  church,  where  an 
old  courtier  lies,  an  Englishman,  but  with 
property  near  Lisbon,  who  was  a  gentleman- 
in-waiting  to  James  II.  in  his  French  exile, 
retired  invalided,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his 
days  "  between  Portugal  and  Byall  Fen " — 
an  odd  pair  of  localities  to  be  so  conjoined! 

And  what  of  the  life  that  it  is  possible  to 
live  in  my  sequestered  grange?  I  suppose 
there  is  not  a  quieter  region  in  the  whole  of 
England.  There  are  but  two  or  three  squires 
and  a  few  clergy  in  the  Isle,  but  the  villages 
are  large  and  prosperous ;  the  people  eminently 
friendly,  shrewd,  and  independent,  with  homely 
names  for  the  most  part,  but  with  a  sprink- 
ling both  of  Saxon  appellations,  like  Cutlack, 
which  is  Guthlac  a  little  changed,  and  Nor- 
man names,  like  Camps,  inherited  perhaps 
from  some  invalided  soldier  who  made  his 
home  there  after  the  great  fight.  There  is  but 
little  communication  with  the  outer  world; 
on  market-days  a  few  trains  dawdle  along  the 
valley  from  Ely  to  St.  Ives  and  back  again. 
They  are  fine,  sturdy,  prosperous  village  com- 
munities, that  mind  their  own  business,  and 
take  their  pleasure  in  religion  and  in  song, 


1 6  At  Large 

like  their  forefathers  the  fenmen,  Girvii,  who 
sang  their  three-part  catches  with  rude 
harmony. 

Part  of  the  charm  of  the  place  is,  I  confess, 
its  loneliness.  One  may  go  for  weeks  together 
with  hardly  a  caller;  there  are  no  social  func- 
tions, no  festivities,  no  gatherings.  One  may 
once  in  a  month  have  a  chat  with  a  neighbour, 
or  take  a  cup  of  tea  at  a  kindly  parsonage. 
But  people  tend  to  mind  their  own  business, 
and  live  their  own  lives  in  their  own  circle ;  yet 
there  is  an  air  of  tranquil  neighbourliness 
all  about.  The  inhabitants  of  the  region  re- 
spect one's  taste  in  choosing  so  homely  and 
serene  a  region  for  a  dwelling-place,  and  they 
know  that  whatever  motive  one  may  have  had 
for  coming,  it  was  not  dictated  by  a  feverish 
love  of  society.  I  have  never  known  a  dis- 
trict— and  I  have  lived  in  many  parts  of  Eng- 
land— where  one  was  so  naturally  and  simply 
accepted  as  a  part  of  the  place.  One  is  greeted 
in  all  directions  with  a  comfortable  cordiality, 
and  a  natural  sort  of  good-breeding;  and  thus 
the  life  comes  at  once  to  have  a  precise  quality, 
a  character  of  its  own.  Every  one  is  inde- 
pendent, and  one  is  expected  to  be  independent 


The  Scene  17 

too.  There  is  no  suspicion  of  a  stranger;  it 
is  merely  recognised  that  he  is  in  search  of  a 
definite  sort  of  life,  and  he  is  made  frankly 
and  unostentatiously  at  home. 

And  so  the  days  race  away  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  mighty  plain.  No  plans  are 
ever  interrupted,  no  one  questions  one's  go- 
ing and  coming  as  one  will,  no  one  troubles 
his  head  about  one's  occupations  or  pursuits. 
Any  help  or  advice  that  one  needs  is  courte- 
ously and  readily  given,  and  no  favours  asked 
or  expected  in  return.  One  little  incident 
gave  me  considerable  amusement.  There  is  a 
private  footpath  of  my  own  which  leads  close 
to  my  house;  owing  to  the  house  having  stood 
for  some  time  unoccupied,  people  had  tended 
to  use  it  as  a  short  cut.  The  kindly  farmer 
obviated  this  by  putting  up  a  little  notice- 
board,  to  indicate  that  the  path  was  private. 
A  day  or  two  afterwards  it  was  removed  and 
thrown  into  a  ditch.  I  was  perturbed  as  well 
as  surprised  by  this,  supposing  that  it  showed 
that  the  notice  had  offended  some  local  sus- 
ceptibility; and  being  very  anxious  to  begin 
my  tenure  on  neighbourly  terms,  I  consulted 
my  genial  landlord,  who   laughed,  and  said 


i8  At  Large 


that  there  was  no  one  who  would  think  of  do- 
ing such  a  thing;  and  to  reassure  me  he  added 
that  one  of  his  men  had  seen  the  culprit  at 
work,  and  that  it  was  only  an  old  horse,  who 
had  rubbed  himself  against  the  post  till  he 
had  thrown  it  down. 

The  days  pass,  then,  in  a  delightful  mono- 
tony; one  reads,  writes,  sits  or  paces  in  the 
garden,  scours  the  country  on  still  sunny 
afternoons.  There  are  many  grand  churches 
and  houses  within  a  reasonable  distance,  such 
as  the  great  churches  near  Wisbech  and 
Lynn, — West  Walton,  Walpole  St.  Peter, 
Tilney,  Terrington  St.  Clement,  and  a  score  of 
others — great  cruciform  structures,  in  every 
conceivable  style,  with  fine  woodwork  and 
noble  towers,  each  standing  in  the  centre  of  a 
tiny,  rustic  hamlet,  built  with  no  idea  of  pru- 
dent proportion  to  the  needs  of  the  places 
they  serve,  but  out  of  pure  joy  and  pride. 
There  are  houses  like  Beaupr6,  a  pile  of  fan 
tastic  brick,  haunted  by  innumerable  phan- 
toms, with  its  stately  orchard  closes,  or  the 
exquisite  gables  of  Snore  Hall,  of  rich  Tudor 
brickwork,  with  fine  panelling  within.  There 
is  no  lack  of  shrines  for  pilgrimage — then,  too, 


The  Scene  19 

it  is  not  difficult  to  persuade  some  like-minded 
friend  to  share  one's  solitude.  And  so  the 
quiet  hours  tick  themselves  away  in  an  almost 
monastic  calm,  while  one's  book  grows  insen- 
sibly day  by  day,  as  the  bulrush  rises  on  the 
edge  of  the  dyke. 

I  do  not  say  that  it  would  be  a  life  to  live 
for  the  whole  of  a  year,  and  year  by  year. 
There  is  no  stir,  no  eagerness,  no  brisk  inter- 
change of  thought  about  it.  But  for  one  who 
spends  six  months  in  a  busy  and  peopled  place, 
full  of  duties  and  discussions  and  conflicting 
interests,  it  is  like  a  green  pasture  and  waters 
of  comfort.  The  danger  of  it,  if  prolonged, 
would  be  that  things  would  grow  languid,  list- 
less, fragrant  like  the  Lotus-eaters'  Isle; 
small  things  would  assume  undue  importance, 
small  decisions  would  seem  unduly  momen- 
tous; one  would  tend  to  regard  one's  own 
features  as  in  a  mirror  and  through  a  magni- 
fying glass.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
good,  because  it  restores  another  kind  of  pro- 
portion; it  is  like  dipping  oneself  in  the 
seclusion  of  a  monastic  cell.  Nowadays  the 
image  of  the  world,  with  all  its  sheets  of  de- 
tailed  news,   all   its   network   of  communica- 


20  At  Large 

tions,  sets  too  deep  a  mark  ui)on  one's  spirit. 
We  tend  to  believe  that  a  man  is  lost  unless  he 
is  overwhelmed  with  occupation,  unless,  like 
the  conjurer,  he  is  keeping  a  dozen  balls  in 
the  air  at  once.  Such  a  gymnastic  teaches  a 
man  alertness,  agility,  effectiveness.  But  it 
has  got  to  be  proved  that  one  was  sent  into 
the  world  to  be  effective,  and  it  is  not  even 
certain  that  a  man  has  fulfilled  the  higher  law 
of  his  being  if  he  has  made  a  large  fortune  by 
business.  A  sagacious,  shrewd,  acute  man  of 
the  world  is  sometimes  a  mere  nuisance;  he 
has  made  his  prosperous  corner  at  the  expense 
of  others,  and  he  has  only  contrived  to  ac- 
cumulate, behind  a  little  fence  of  his  own, 
what  was  meant  to  be  the  property  of  all. 
I  have  known  a  good  many  successful  men, 
and  I  cannot  honestly  say  that  I  think  that 
they  are  generally  the  better  for  their  success. 
They  have  often  learnt  self-confidence,  the 
shadow  of  which  is  a  good-natured  contempt 
for  ineffective  people;  the  shadow,  on  the 
other  hand,  which  falls  on  the  contemplative 
man  is  an  undue  diffidence,  an  indolent  depres- 
sion, a  tendency  to  think  that  it  does  not  very 
much  matter  what  any  one  does. 


The  Scene  21 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  contemplative 
man  sometimes  does  grasp  one  very  important 
fact — that  we  are  sent  into  the  world,  most  of 
us,  to  learn  something  about  God  and  our- 
selves; whereas  if  we  spend  our  lives  in 
directing  and  commanding  and  consulting 
others,  we  get  so  swollen  a  sense  of  our  own 
importance,  our  own  adroitness,  our  own 
effectiveness,  that  we  forget  that  we  are  tol- 
erated rather  than  needed.  It  is  better  on  the 
whole  to  tarry  the  Lord's  leisure,  than  to  try 
impatiently  to  force  the  hand  of  God,  and  to 
make  amends  for  his  apparent  slothfulness. 
What  really  makes  a  nation  grow,  and  im- 
prove, and  progress,  is  not  social  legislation 
and  organisation.  That  is  only  the  sign  of 
the  rising  moral  temperature;  and  a  man  who 
sets  an  example  of  soberness,  and  kindliness, 
and  contentment  is  better  than  a  pragmatical 
district  visitor  with  a  taste  for  rating  meek 
persons. 

It  may  be  asked,  then,  do  I  set  myself  up 
as  an  example  in  this  matter?  God  forbid! 
I  live  thus  because  I  like  it,  and  not  from  any 
philosophical  or  philanthropical  standpoint. 
But  if  more  men  were  to  follow  their  instincts 


22  At  Large 

in  the  matter,  instead  of  being  misled  and 
bewildered  by  the  conventional  view  that 
attaches  virtue  to  perspiration,  and  national 
vigour  to  the  multiplication  of  unnecessary 
business,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  com- 
munity. What  I  claim  is  that  a  species  of 
mental  and  moral  equilibrium  is  best  attained 
by  a  careful  proportion  of  activity  and  quie- 
tude. What  happens  in  the  case  of  the  ma- 
jority of  people  is  that  they  are  so  much 
occupied  in  the  process  of  acquisition,  that  they 
have  no  time  to  sort  or  dispose  their  stores; 
and  thus  life,  which  ought  to  be  a  thing  com- 
plete in  itself,  and  ought  to  be  spent,  partly  in 
gathering  materials,  and  partly  in  drawing 
inferences,  is  apt  to  be  a  hurried  accumula- 
tion lasting  to  the  edge  of  the  tomb.  We  are 
put  into  the  world,  I  cannot  help  feeling,  to 
he  rather  than  to  do.  We  excuse  our  thirst 
for  action  by  pretending  to  ourselves  that  our 
own  doing  may  minister  to  the  being  of  others; 
but  all  that  it  often  effects  is  to  inoculate 
others  with  the  same  restless  and  feverish 
bacteria. 

And  anyhow,  as  I  said,  it  is  but  an  experi- 
ment.   I  can  terminate  it  whenever  I  have  the 


The  Scene  23 

wish  to  do  so.  Even  if  it  is  a  failure,  it  will 
at  all  events  have  been  an  experiment,  and 
others  may  learn  wisdom  by  my  mistake;  be- 
cause it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  a  failure 
in  a  deliberate  experiment  in  life  is  often  more 
fruitful  than  a  conventional  success.  People 
as  a  rule  are  so  cautious;  and  it  is  of  course 
highly  disagreeable  to  run  a  risk,  and  to  pay 
the  penalty.  Life  is  too  short,  one  feels,  to  risk 
making  serious  mistakes;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  cautious  man  often  has  the  catas- 
trophe, without  even  having  had  the  pleasure 
of  a  run  for  his  money.  Jowett,  the  high 
priest  of  worldly  wisdom,  laid  down  as  a 
maxim  "  Never  resign  " ;  but  I  have  found  my- 
self that  there  is  no  pleasure  comparable  to 
disentangling  oneself  from  uncongenial  sur- 
roundings, unless  it  be  the  pleasure  of  making 
mild  experiments  and  trying  unconventional 
schemes. 


II 

Contentment 

I  HAVE  attempted  of  late,  in  more  than  one 
*  book,  to  depict  a  certain  kind  of  tranquil 
life,  a  life  of  reflection  rather  than  of  action, 
of  contemplation  rather  than  of  business;  and 
I  have  tried  to  do  this  from  different  points 
of  view,  though  the  essence  has  been  the  same. 
I  endeavoured  at  first  to  do  it  anonymously, 
because  I  have  no  desire  to  recommend  these 
ideas  as  being  my  own  theories.  The  personal 
background  rather  detracts  from  than  adds  to 
the  value  of  the  thoughts,  because  people  can 
compare  my  theories  with  my  practice,  and 
show  how  lamentably  I  fail  to  carry  them  out. 
But  time  after  time  I  have  been  pulled  re- 
luctantly out  of  my  burrow,  by  what  I  still 
consider  a  wholly  misguided  zeal  for  public- 
ity, tin  I  have  decided  that  I  will  lurk  no 
longer.  It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  I 
published,  under  my  own  name,  a  book  called 
Beside  Still  Waters,  a  harmless  enough  vol- 

24 


Contentment  25 

ume,  I  thought,  which  was  meant  to  be  a 
deliberate  summary  or  manifesto  of  these 
ideas.  It  depicted  a  young  man  who,  after 
a  reasonable  experience  of  practical  life,  re- 
solved to  retire  into  the  shade,  and  who  in 
that  position  indulged  profusely  in  leisurely 
reverie.  The  book  was  carefully  enough  writ- 
ten, and  I  have  been  a  good  deal  surprised 
to  find  that  it  has  met  with  considerable  dis- 
approval, and  even  derision,  on  the  part  of 
many  reviewers.  It  has  been  called  morbid 
and  indolent,  and  decadent,  and  half-a-hun- 
dred  more  ugly  adjectives. 

Now  I  do  not  for  an  instant  question  the 
right  of  a  single  one  of  these  conscientious 
persons  to  form  whatever  opinion  they  like 
about  my  book,  and  to  express  it  in  any  terms 
they  like.  They  say,  and  obviously  feel,  that 
the  thought  of  the  book  is  essentially  thin, 
and  that  the  vein  in  which  it  is  written  is 
offensively  egotistical.  I  do  not  dispute  the 
possibility  of  their  being  perfectly  right.  An 
artist  who  exhibits  his  paintings,  or  a  writer 
who  publishes  his  books,  challenges  the  criti- 
cisms of  the  public;  and  I  am  quite  sure  that 
the  reviewers  who  frankly  disliked  my  book, 


26  At  Large 

and  said  so  plainly,  thought  that  they  :were 
doing  their  duty  to  the  public,  and  warning 
them  against  teaching  which  they  believed  to 
be  insidious  and  even  immoral.  I  honour 
them  for  doing  this,  and  I  applaud  them,  es- 
pecially if  they  did  violence  to  their  own  feel- 
ings of  courtesy  and  urbanity  in  doing  so. 

Then  there  were  some  good-natured  review- 
ers who  practically  said  that  the  book  was 
simply  a  collection  of  amiable  platitudes; 
but  that  if  the  public  liked  to  read  such  stuff, 
they  were  quite  at  liberty  to  do  so.  I  admire 
these  reviewers  for  a  different  reason,  partly 
for  their  tolerant  permission  to  the  public  to 
read  what  they  choose,  and  still  more  because 
1  like  to  think  tiiat  there  are  so  many  intelli- 
gent people  in  the  world  who  are  wearisomely 
familiar  with  ideas  which  have  only  slowly 
and  gradually  dawned  upon  myself.  I  have 
no  intention  of  trying  to  refute  or  convince 
my  critics,  and  I  beg  them  with  all  my  heart 
to  say  what  they  think  about  my  books,  be- 
cause only  by  the  frank  interchange  of  ideas 
can  we  arrive  at  the  truth. 

But  what  I  am  going  to  try  to  do  in  this 
chapter  is  to  examine  the  theory  by  virtue  of 


Contentment  27 

which  my  book  is  condemned,  and  I  am  going 
to  try  to  give  the  fullest  weight  to  the  con- 
siderations urged  against  it.  I  am  sure  there 
is  something  in  what  the  critics  say,  but  I  be- 
lieve that  where  we  differ  is  in  this:  The 
critics  who  disapprove  of  my  book  seem  to  me 
to  think  that  all  men  are  cast  in  the  same 
mould,  and  that  the  principles  which  hold 
good  for  some  necessarily  hold  good  for  all. 
What  I  like  best  about  their  criticisms  is  that 
they  are  made  in  a  spirit  of  moral  earnestness 
and  ethical  seriousness.  I  am  a  serious  man 
myself,  and  I  rejoice  to  see  others  serious. 
The  point  of  view  which  they  seem  to  recom- 
mend is  the  point  of  view  of  a  certain  kind 
of  practical  strenuousness,  the  gospel  of  push, 
if  I  may  so  call  it.  They  seem  to  hold  that 
people  ought  to  be  discontented  with  what 
they  are,  that  they  ought  to  try  to  better  them- 
selves, that  they  ought  to  be  active,  and  what 
they  call  normal;  that  when  they  have  done 
their  work  as  energetically  as  possible,  they 
should  amuse  themselves  energetically,  too, 
take  hard  exercise,  shout  and  play, 

"  Pleased  as  the  Indian  boy  to  run 
And  shoot  his  arrows  in  the  sun," 


28  At  Large  '' 

and  that  then  they  should  recreate  themselves 
like  Homeric  heroes,  eating  and  drinking,  list- 
ening comfortably  to  the  minstrel,  and  take 
their  fill  of  love  in  a  full-blooded  way. 

That  is,  I  think,  a  very  good  theory  of  life 
for  some  people,  though  I  think  it  is  a  little 
barbarous ;  it  is  Spartan  rather  than  Athenian. 

Some  of  my  critics  take  a  higher  kind  of 
ground,  and  say  that  I  want  to  minimise  and 
melt  down  the  old  stern  beliefs  and  principles 
of  morality  into  a  kind  of  nebulous  emotion. 
They  remind  me  a  little  of  an  old  country 
squire  of  whom  I  have  heard,  of  the  John  Bull 
type,  whose  younger  son,  a  melancholy  and 
sentimental  youth,  joined  the  Church  of 
Rome.  His  father  was  determined  that  this 
should  not  separate  them,  and  asked  him  to 
come  home  and  talk  it  over.  He  told  his  eld- 
est son  that  he  was  going  to  remonstrate  with 
the  erring  youth  in  a  simple  and  affectionate 
way.  The  eldest  son  said  that  he  hoped  his 
father  would  do  it  tactfully  and  gently,  as 
his  brother  was  highly  sensitive;  to  which  his 
father  replied  that  he  had  thought  over  what 
he  meant  to  say,  and  was  going  to  be  very 
reasonable.    The  young  man  arrived,  and  was 


Contentment  29 

ushered  into  the  study  by  his  eldest  brother. 
"  Well,"  said  the  squire,  "  very  glad  to  see 
you,  Harry;  but  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
your  mother's  religion  is  not  good  enough  for 

a  d d  ass  like  you?" 

Now,  far  from  desiring  to  minimise  faith  in 
God  and  the  Unseen,  I  think  it  is  the  thing  of 
which  the  world  is  more  in  need  than  anything 
else.  What  has  made  the  path  of  faith  a 
steep  one  to  tread  is  partly  that  it  has  got  ter- 
ribly encumbered  with  ecclesiastical  tradi- 
tions; it  has  been  mended,  like  the  Slough  of 
Despond,  with  cart-loads  of  texts  and  insecure 
definitions.  And  partly,  too,  the  old  simple 
undisturbed  faith  in  the  absolute  truth  and 
authority  of  the  Bible  has  given  way.  It  is 
admitted  that  the  Bible  contains  a  consider- 
able admixture  of  the  legendary  element;  and 
it  requires  a  strong  intellectual  and  moral 
grip  to  build  one's  faith  upon  a  collection  of 
writings  some  of  which,  at  all  events,  are  not 
now  regarded  as  being  historically  and  liter- 
ally true.  "  If  I  cannot  believe  it  all,"  says 
the  simple,  bewildered  soul,  "  how  can  I  be 
certain  that  any  of  it  is  indubitably  true?" 
Only  the  patient  and  desirous  spirit  can  de- 


/ 


30  At  Large 

cide;  but,  whatever  else  fades,  the  perfect 
insight,  the  Divine  message  of  the  Son  of  Man 
cannot  fade;  the  dimmer  the  historical  setting 
becomes,  the  brighter  shine  the  parables  and 
the  sayings,  so  far  beyond  the  power  of  His 
followers  to  have  originated,  so  utterly  satis- 
fying to  our  deepest  needs.  What  I  desire  to 
say  with  all  my  heart  is  that  we  pilgrims  need 
not  be  dismayed  because  the  golden  clue  dips 
into  darkness  and  mist;  it  emerges  as  bright 
as  ever  upon  the  upward  slope  of  the  valley. 
If  one  disregards  all  that  is  uncertain,  all  that 
cannot  be  held  to  be  securely  proved,  in  the 
sacred  writings,  there  still  remain  the  essen- 
tial facts  of  the  Christian  revelation,  and  more 
deep  and  fruitful  principles  than  a  man  can 
keep  and  make  his  own  in  the  course  of  a  life- 
time, however  purely  and  faithfully  he  lives 
and  strives.  To  myself  the  doubtful  matters 
are  things  absolutely  immaterial,  like  the 
delris  of  the  mine,  while  the  precious  ore 
gleams  and  sparkles  in  every  boulder. 

What,  in  effect,  these  critics  say  is  that  a 
man  must  not  discuss  religion  unless  he  is  an 
expert  in  theology.  When  I  try,  as  I  have 
once  or  twice  triedj  to  criticise  some  current 


Contentment  31 

conception  of  a  Christian  dogma,  the  theologi- 
cal reviewer,  with  a  titter  that  resembles  the 
titter  of  Miss  Squeers  in  Nicholas  Nicklehy, 
says  that  a  writer  who  presumes  to  discuss 
such  questions  ought  to  be  better  acquainted 
with  the  modern  developments  of  theology. 
To  that  I  demur,  because  I  am  not  attempt- 
ing to  discuss  theology,  but  current  concep- 
tions of  theology.  If  the  advance  in  theology 
has  been  so  enormous,  then  all  I  can  say  is 
that  the  theologians  fail  to  bring  home  the 
knowledge  of  that  progress  to  the  man  in  the 
street.  To  use  a  simple  parable,  what  one 
feels  about  many  modern  theological  state- 
ments is  what  the  eloquent  bagman  said  in 
praise  of  the  Yorkshire  ham :  "  Before  you 
know  where  you  are,  there — ^it  's  wanished !  " 
This  is  not  so  in  science;  science  advances, 
and  the  ordinary  man  knows  more  or  less  what 
is  going  on ;  he  understands  what  is  meant  by 
the  development  of  species,  he  has  an  inkling 
of  what  radioactivity  means,  and  so  forth; 
but  this  is  because  science  is  making  discover- 
ies, while  theological  discoveries  are  mainly 
of  a  liberal  and  negative  kind,  a  modification 
of  old  axioms,  a  loosening  of  old  definitions. 


32  At  Large 

Theology  has  made  no  discoveries  about  the 
nattire  of  God,  or  the  nature  of  the  soul;  the 
problem  of  free-will  and  necessity  is  as  dark 
as  ever  except  that  scientific  discovery  tends 
to  show  more  and  more  that  an  immutable  law 
regulates  the  smallest  details  of  life.  I  honour, 
with  all  my  heart,  the  critics  who  have  ap- 
proached the  Bible  in  the  same  spirit  in  which 
they  approach  other  literature;  but  the  only 
definite  result  has  been  to  make  what  was  con- 
sidered a  matter  of  blind  faith  more  a  matter 
of  opinion.  But  to  attempt  to  scare  men  away 
from  discussing  religious  topics,  by  saying 
that  it  is  only  a  matter  for  experts,  is  to  act 
in  the  spirit  of  the  Inquisition.  It  is  like  say- 
ing to  a  man  that  he  must  not  discuss  ques- 
tions of  diet  and  exercise  because  he  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  Pharmacopoeia,  or  that  no 
one  may  argue  on  matters  of  current  politics 
unless  he  is  a  trained  historian.  Religion  is, 
or  ought  to  be,  a  matter  of  vital  and  daily 
concern  for  every  one  of  us;  if  our  moral 
progress  and  our  spiritual  prospects  are 
affected  by  what  we  believe,  theologians  ought 
to  be  grateful  to  any  one  who  will  discuss 
religious  ideas  from  the  current  point  of  view, 


Contentment  33 

if  if  only  leads  them  to  clear  up  misconcep- 
tions that  may  prevail.  If  I  needed  to  justify 
myself  further,  I  would  only  add  that  since  I 
began  to  write  on  such  subjects,  I  have  re- 
ceived a  large  number  of  letters  from  un- 
known people,  who  seem  to  be  grateful 
to  any  one  who  will  attempt  to  speak 
frankly  on  these  matters,  with  the  earnest  de- 
sire, which  I  can  honestly  say  has  never  been 
absent  from  my  mind,  to  elucidate  and  con- 
firm a  belief  in  simple  and  essential  religious 
principles. 

And  now  I  would  go  on  to  say  a  few  words 
as  to  the  larger  object  which  I  have  had  in 
view.  My  aim  has  been  to  show  how  it  is 
possible  for  people  living  quiet  and  humdrum 
lives,  without  any  opportunities  of  gratifying 
ambition  or  for  taking  a  leading  part  on  the 
stage  of  the  world,  to  make  the  most  of  simple 
conditions,  and  to  live  lives  of  dignity  and 
joy.  My  own  belief  is  that  what  is  commonly 
called  success  has  an  insidious  power  of  poi- 
soning the  clear  springs  of  life;  because  people 
who  grow  to  depend  upon  the  stimulus  of  suc- 
cess sink  into  dreariness  and  dulness  when 
that  stimulus  is  withdrawn.    Here  my  critics 

3 


34  At  Large 

have  found  fault  with  me  for  not  being  more 
strenuous,  more  virile,  more  energetic.  It  is 
strange  to  me  that  my  object  can  have  been  so 
singularly  misunderstood.  I  believe,  with  all 
my  heart,  that  happiness  depends  upon  strenu- 
ous energy ;  but  I  think  that  this  energy  ought 
to  be  expended  upon  work,  and  everyday  life, 
and  relations  with  others,  and  the  accessible 
pleasures  of  literature  and  art.  The  gospel 
that  I  detest  is  the  gospel  of  success,  the 
teaching  that  every  one  ought  to  be  discon- 
tented with  his  setting,  that  a  man  ought  to 
get  to  the  front,  clear  a  space  round  him,  eat, 
drink,  make  love,  cry,  strive,  and  fight.  It 
is  all  to  be  at  the  expense  of  feebler  people. 
That  is  a  detestable  ideal,  because  it  is  the 
gospel  of  tyranny  rather  than  the  gospel  of 
equality.  It  is  obvious,  too,  that  such  success 
depends  upon  a  man  being  stronger  than  his 
fellows,  and  is  only  made  possible  by  shoving 
and  hectoring,  and  bullying  the  weak.  The 
preaching  of  this  violent  gospel  has  done  us 
already  grievous  harm;  it  is  this  which  has 
tended  to  depopulate  country  districts,  to 
make  people  averse  to  discharging  all  honest 
subordinate  tasks,  to  make  men  and  women 


Contentment  35 

overvalue  excitement  and  amusement.  The 
result  of  it  is  the  lowest  kind  of  democratic 
sentiment,  which  says,  "  Every  one  is  as  good 
as  every  one  else,  and  I  am  a  little  better," 
and  the  jealous  spirit,  which  says,  "  If  I  can- 
not be  prominent,  I  will  do  my  best  that  no 
one  else  shall  be."  Out  of  it  develops  the  de- 
mon of  municipal  politics,  which  makes  a  man 
strive  for  a  place,  in  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  order  things  for  which  others  have  to  pay. 
It  is  this  teaching  which  makes  power  seem 
desirable  for  the  sake  of  personal  advantages, 
and  with  no  care  for  responsibility.  This 
spirit  seems  to  me  an  utterly  vile  and  detest- 
able spirit.  It  tends  to  disguise  its  rank  in- 
dividualism under  a  pretence  of  desiring  to 
improve  social  conditions.  I  do  not  mean  for 
a  moment  to  say  that  all  social  reformers  are 
of  this  type;  the  clean-handed  social  reformer, 
:who  desires  no  personal  advantage,  and  whose 
influence  is  a  matter  of  anxious  care,  is  one 
of  the  noblest  of  men;  but  now  that  schemes 
of  social  reform  are  fashionable,  there  are  a 
number  of  blatant  people  who  use  them  for 
purposes  of  personal  advancement. 
What  I  rather  desire  is  to  encourage  a  very 


36  At  Large 

different  kind  of  individualism,  the  individual- 
ism of  the  man  who  realises  that  the  hope  of 
the  race  depends  upon  the  quality  of  life,  upon 
the  number  of  people  who  live  quiet,  active, 
gentle,  kindly,  faithful  lives,  enjoying  their 
work  and  turning  for  recreation  to  the  nobler 
and  simpler  sources  of  pleasure — the  love  of 
nature,  poetry,  literature,  and  art.  Of  course 
the  difficulty  is  that  we  do  not,  most  of  us,  find 
our  pleasures  in  these  latter  things,  but  in  the 
excitement  and  amusement  of  social  life.  I 
mournfully  admit  it,  and  I  quite  see  the  use- 
lessness  of  trying  to  bring  pleasures  within  the 
reach  of  people  when  they  have  no  taste  for 
them;  but  an  increasing  number  of  people  do 
care  for  such  things,  and  there  are  still  more 
who  would  care  for  them,  if  only  they  could 
be  introduced  to  them  at  an  impressionable 
age. 

If  it  is  said  that  this  kind  of  simplicity  is 
a  very  tame  and  spiritless  thing,  I  would  an- 
swer that  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  within 
the  reach  of  all.  The  reason  why  the  pursuit 
of  social  advancement  and  success  is  so  hol- 
low, is  that  the  subordinate  life  is  after  all 
the  life  that  must  fall  to  the  majority  of  peo- 


Contentment  37 

pie.  We  cannot  organise  society  on  the  lines 
of  the  army  of  a  lesser  German  state,  which 
consisted  of  twenty-four  officers,  covered  with 
military  decorations,  and  eight  privates.  The 
successful  men,  whatever  happens,  must  be  a 
small  minority;  and  what  I  desire  is  that 
success,  as  it  is  called,  should  fall  quietly  and 
inevitably  on  the  heads  of  those  who  deserve 
it,  while  ordinary  people  should  put  it  out  of 
their  thoughts.  It  is  no  use  holding  up  an 
ideal  which  cannot  be  attained,  and  which 
the  mere  attempt  to  attain  makes  fruitful  in 
disaster  and  discontent. 

I  do  not  at  all  wish  to  teach  a  gospel  of  dul- 
ness.  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  the  poet  who 
said, 

"  Life  is  not  life  at  all  without  delight. 
Nor  hath  it  any  might." 

But  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  real  pleasures 
of  the  world  are  those  which  cannot  be  bought 
for  money,  and  which  are  wholly  independent 
of  success. 

Every  one  who  has  watched  children  knows 
the  extraordinary  amount  of  pleasure  that 
they  can  extract  out  of  the  simplest  materials. 


38  At  Large 

To  keep  a  shop  in  the  corner  of  a  garden, 
where  the  commodities  are  pebbles  and 
thistle-heads  stored  in  old  tin  pots,  and  which 
are  paid  for  in  daisies,  will  be  an  engrossing 
occupation  to  healthy  children  for  a  long 
summer  afternoon.  There  is  no  reason  why 
that  kind  of  zest  should  not  be  imported  into 
later  life;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  jjeople  who 
practise  self-restraint,  who  are  temperate  and 
quiet,  do  retain  a  gracious  kind  of  contentment 
in  all  that  they  do  or  say,  or  think,  to  extreme 
old  age;  it  is  the  jaded  weariness  of  over- 
strained lives  that  needs  the  stimulus  of  ex- 
citement to  carry  them  along  from  hour  to 
hour. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  rigid  asceticism 
of  Ruskin's  childhood?  A  bunch  of  keys  to 
play  with,  and  a  little  later  a  box  of  bricks; 
the  Bible  and  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  and 
Robinson  Crusoe  to  read;  a  summary  whip- 
ping if  he  fell  down  and  hurt  himself,  or  if 
he  ever  cried.  Yet  no  one  would  venture  to 
say  that  this  austerity  in  any  way  stunted 
Ruskin's  development  or  limited  his  range  of 
pleasures;  it  made  him  perhaps  a  little  sub- 
missive   and    unadventurous.    But    who    that 


Contentment  39 

ever  saw  him,  as  the  most  famous  art-critic  of 
the  day,  being  mercilessly  snubbed,  when  he 
indulged  in  paradoxes,  by  the  old  wine-mer- 
chant, or  being  told  to  hold  his  tongue  by  the 
grim  old  mother,  and  obeying  cheerfully  and 
sweetly,  would  have  preferred  him  to  be  loud, 
contradictory,  and  self-assertive?  The  mis- 
chief of  our  present  system  of  publicity  is  that 
we  cannot  enjoy  our  own  ideas,  unless  we  can 
impress  people  with  them,  or,  at  all  events, 
impress  people  with  a  sense  of  our  enjoyment 
of  them.  There  is  a  noble  piece  of  character- 
drawing  in  one  of  Mr.  Henry  James's  novels, 
The  Portrait  of  a.  Lady,  where  Gilbert  Os- 
mond, a  selfish  dilettante,  finding  that  he  can- 
not make  a  great  success  or  attain  a  great 
position,  devotes  himself  to  trying  to  mystify 
and  provoke  the  curiosity  of  the  world  by  re- 
tiring into  a  refined  seclusion,  and  professing 
that  it  affords  him  an  exquisite  kind  of 
enjoyment.  The  hidebus  vulgarity  of  his  atti- 
tude is  not  at  first  sight  apparent;  he  de- 
ceives the  heroine,  who  is  a  considerable 
heiress,  into  thinking  that  here,  at  least,  is  a 
man  who  is  living  a  quiet  and  sincere  life 
among  the  things  of  the  soul;  and,  having  ob- 


40  At  Large 

tained  possession  of  her  purse,  he  sets  tip 
house  in  a  dignified  old  palace  in  Rome,  where 
he  continues  to  amuse  himself  by  inviting  dis- 
tinquished  persons  to  visit  him,  in  order  that 
he  may  have  the  pleasure  of  excluding  the 
lesser  people  who  would  like  to  be  included. 

This  is,  of  course,  doing  the  thing  upon  an 
almost  sublime  scale;  but  the  fact  remains 
that,  in  an  age  which  values  notoriety  above 
everything  except  property,  a  great  many  peo- 
ple do  suffer  from  the  disease  of  not  enjoying 
things  unless  they  are  aware  that  others  envy 
their  enjoyment.  To  people  of  an  artistic 
temperament  this  is  a  sore  temptation,  be- 
cause the  essence  of  the  artistic  temperament 
is  its  egotism,  and  egotism,  like  the  Bread- 
and-butter  fly,  requires  a  special  nutriment — 
the  nutriment  of  external  admiration. 

And  here,  I  think,  lies  one  of  the  pernicious 
results  of  an  over-developed  system  of  ath- 
letics. The  more  games  that  people  play,  the 
better;  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  wholesome  to 
talk  about  them  for  large  spaces  of  leisure 
time,  any  more  than  it  is  wholesome  to  talk 
about  your  work  or  your  meals.  The  result 
of  all  the  talk  about  athletics  is  that  the  news- 


^ 


Contentment  41 

papers  get  full  of  them  too.  That  is  only 
natural.  It  is  the  business  of  newspapers  to 
find  out  what  interests  people,  and  to  tell 
them  about  it;  but  the  bad  side  of  it  is  that 
young  athletes  get  introduced  to  the  plea- 
sures of  publicity,  and  that  ambitious  young 
men  think  that  athletics  are  a  short  cut  to 
fame.  To  have  played  in  a  University  eleven 
is  like  accepting  a  peerage;  you  wear  for  the 
rest  of  your  life  an  agreeable  and  honourable 
social  label,  and  I  do  not  think  that  a  peerage 
is  deserved,  or  should  be  accepted,  at  the  age 
of  twenty.  I  do  not  think  it  is  a  good  kind 
of  fame  which  depends  on  a  personal  perform- 
ance rather  than  upon  a  man's  usefulness  to 
the  human  race. 

The  kind  of  contentment  that  I  should  like 
to  see  on  the  increase  is  the  contentment  of 
a  man  who  works  hard  and  enjoys  work,  both 
in  itself  and  in  the  contrast  it  supplies  to  his 
leisure  hours;  and,  further,  whose  leisure  is 
full  of  varied  interests,  not  only  definite  pur- 
suits, but  an  interest  in  his  relations  with 
others,  not  only  of  a  spectatorial  kind,  but 
with  the  natural  and  instinctive  desire  to  con- 
tribute to  their  happiness,  not  in  a  priggish 


42  At  Large 

way,  but  from  a  sense  of  cordial  good- 
fellowship. 

This  programme  may  seem,  as  I  have  said, 
to  be  unambitious  and  prosaic,  and  to  have 
very  little  that  is  stirring  about  it.  But  my 
belief  is  that  it  can  be  the  most  lively,  sensi- 
tive, fruitful,  and  enjoyable  programme  in  the 
world,  because  the  enjoyment  of  it  depends 
upon  the  very  stuflE  of  life  itself,  and  not  upon 
skimming  the  cream  off  and  throwing  away 
the  milk. 

My  critics  will  say  that  I  am  only  appear- 
ing again  from  my  cellar,  with  my  hands  filled 
with  bottled  platitudes;  but  if  they  are  plati- 
tudes, by  which  I  mean  plain  and  obvious 
truths,  why  do  we  not  find  more  people  prac- 
tising them?  What  I  mean  by  a  platitude  is 
a  truth  so  obvious  that  it  is  devoid  of  inspira- 
tion, and  has  become  one  of  the  things  that 
every  one  does  so  instinctively  that  no  re- 
minder of  them  is  necessary.  Would  that  it 
were  so  in  the  present  case!  All  I  can  say  is 
that  I  know  very  few  people  who  live  their 
lives  on  these  lines,  and  that  most  of  the 
people  I  know  find  inspiration  anywhere  but 
in  the  homely  stuff  of  life.    Of  course  there 


Contentment  43 

are  a  good  many  people  who  take  life  stolidly 
enough,  and  do  not  desire  inspiration  at  all; 
but  I  do  not  mean  that  sort  of  life  in  the 
least.  I  mean  that  it  ought  to  be  possible 
and  delightful  for  people  to  live  lives  full  of 
activity  and  perception  and  kindliness  and 
joy,  on  very  simple  lines  indeed;  to  take  up 
their  work  day  by  day  with  an  agreeable  sense 
of  putting  out  their  powers,  to  find  in  the 
pageant  of  nature  an  infinite  refreshment,  and 
to  let  art  and  poetry  lift  them  up  into  a  world 
of  hopes  and  dreams  and  memories;  and  thus 
life  may  become  a  meal  to  be  eaten  with  ap- 
petite, with  a  wholesome  appreciation  of  its 
pleasant  savours,  rather  than  a  meal  eaten  in 
satiety  or  greediness,  with  a  peevish  repining 
that  it  is  not  more  elaborate  and  delicate. 

I  do  not  claim  to  live  my  own  life  on  these 
lines.  I  started,  as  all  sensitive  and  pleasure- 
loving  natures  do,  with  an  expectation  of 
finding  life  a  much  more  exciting,  amusing, 
and  delightful  thing  than  I  have  found  it.  I 
desired  to  skip  from  peak  to  peak,  without 
troubling  to  descend  into  the  valleys.  But 
now  that  I  have  descended,  partly  out  of  curi- 
osity and  partly  out  of  inefficiency,  no  doubt, 


44  At  Large 

into  the  low-lying  vales,  I  have  found  them  to 
be  beautiful  and  interesting  places,  the  hedge- 
rows full  of  flower  and  leaf,  the  thickets  musi- 
cal with  the  voices  of  birds,  the  orchards 
loaded  with  fruit,  the  friendly  homesteads 
rich  with  tranquil  life  and  abounding  in  quiet, 
friendly  people;  and  then  the  very  peaks 
themselves,  past  which  my  way  occasionally 
conducts  me,  have  a  beautiful  solemnity  of 
pure  outline  and  strong  upliftedness,  seen 
from  below,  which  I  think  they  tend  to  lose, 
seen  from  the  summit;  and  if  I  have  spoken 
of  the  quieter  joys,  it  is — I  can  say  this  with 
perfect  honesty — ^because  I  have  been  pleased 
with  them,  as  a  bird  is  pleased  with  the  sun- 
shine and  the  berries,  and  sings,  not  that  the 
passers-by  may  admire  his  notes,  but  out  of 
simple  joy  of  heart;  and,  after  all,  it  is 
enough  justification,  if  a  pilgrim  or  two  have 
stopped  upon  their  way  to  listen  with  a  smile. 
That  alone  persuades  me  that  one  does  no 
harm  by  speaking,  even  if  there  are  other  pas- 
sers-by who  say  what  a  tiresome  note  it  is, 
that  they  have  heard  it  a  hundred  times  be- 
fore, and  cannot  think  why  the  stupid  bird 
does  not  vary  his  song.     Personally,  I  would 


Contentment  45 

rather  hear  the  yellow-hammer  utter  his  sharp 
monotonous  notes,  with  the  dropping  cadence 
at  the  end,  than  that  he  should  try  to  imitate 
the  nightingale. 

However,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  quite  willing 
to  believe  that  the  critics  sx)eak,  or  think  they 
speak,  in  the  interests  of  the  public,  and  with 
a  tender  concern  that  the  public  should  not  be 
bored.  And  I  will  take  my  leave  of  them  by 
saying,  like  Miss  Flite,  that  I  will  ask  them 
to  accept  a  blessing,  and  that  when  I  receive 
a  judgment,  I  shall  confer  estates  impartially. 

But  my  last  word  shall  be  to  my  readers, 
and  I  will  beg  of  them  not  to  be  deceived 
either  by  experts  or  by  critics;  on  the  one 
hand,  not  to  be  frightened  away  from  specu- 
lating and  reflecting  about  the  possible  mean- 
ings of  life  by  the  people  who^ay  that  no  one 
under  the  degree  of  a  Bachelor  of  Divinity 
has  any  right  to  tackle  the  matter;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  would  implore  them  to  be- 
lieve that  a  quiet  life  is  not  necessarily  a  dull 
life,  and  that  the  cutting  off  of  alcohol  does 
not  necessarily  mean  a  lowering  of  physical 
vitality;  but  rather  that,  if  they  will  abstain 
for  a  little  from  dependence  upon  excitement, 


46  At  Large 

they  will  find  their  lives  flooded  by  a  new; 
kind  of  quality,  which  heightens  perception 
and  increases  joy.  Of  course  souls  will  ache 
and  ail,  and  we  have  to  bear  the  burden  of  our 
ancestors'  weaknesses  as  well  as  the  burden 
of  our  own;  but  just  as,  in  the  physical  re- 
gion, diet  and  exercise  and  regularity  can 
efifect  more  cures  than  the  strongest  medi- 
cines, so,  in  the  life  of  the  spirit,  self-restraint 
and  deliberate  limitation  and  tranquil  patience 
will  often  lead  into  a  vigorous  and  effec- 
tive channel  the  stream  that,  left  to  itself, 
welters  and  wanders  among  shapeless  pools 
and  melancholy  marshes. 


\ 


III 


Friendship 

'T^O  make  oneself  heloved,  says  an  old  French 
proverb,  this  is,  after  all,  the  test  way 
to  ie  useful.  That  is  one  of  the  deep  sayings 
:which  children  think  flat,  and  which  young 
men,  and  even  young  women,  despise;  and 
which  a  middle-aged  man  hears  with  a  certain 
troubled  surprise,  and  wonders  if  there  is  not 
something  in  it  after  all;  and  which  old  peo- 
ple discover  to  be  true,  and  think  with  a  sad 
regret  of  opportunities  missed,  and  of  years 
devoted,  how  unprofitably,  to  other  kinds  of 
usefulness!  The  truth  is  that  most  of  us,  who 
have  any  ambitions  at  all,  do  not  start  in  life 
with  a  hope  of  being  useful,  but  rather  with 
an  intention  of  being  ornamental.  We  think, 
like  Joseph  in  his  childish  dreams,  that  the 
sun  and  moon  and  the  eleven  stars,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  sheaves,  are  going  to  make 
47 


48  At  Large 

obeisance  to  us.  We  want  to  be  impressive, 
rich,  beautiful,  influential,  admired,  envied; 
and  then,  as  we  move  forward,  the  visions  fade. 
We  have  to  be  content  if,  in  a  quiet  corner,  a 
single  sheaf  gives  us  a  nod  of  recognition; 
and  as  for  the  eleven  stars,  they  seem  unaware 
of  our  very  existence!  And  then  we  make 
further  discoveries :  that  when  we  have  seemed 
to  ourselves  most  impressive,  we  have  only 
been  pretentious;  that  riches  are  only  a  talis- 
man against  poverty,  and  even  make  suffer- 
ing and  pain  and  grief  more  unendurable! 
that  beauty  fades  into  stolidity  or  weariness; 
that  influence  comes  mostly  to  people  who  do 
not  pursue  it,  and  that  the  best  kind  of  in- 
fluence belongs  to  those  who  do  not  even  know 
that  they  possess  it;  that  admiration  is  but  a 
brilliant  husk,  which  may  or  may  not  con- 
tain a  wholesome  kernel;  and  as  for  envy, 
there  is  poison  in  that  cup!  And  then  we  be- 
come aware  that  the  best  crowns  have  fallen 
to  those  who  have  not  sought  them,  and  that 
simple-minded  and  unselfish  people  have  won 
the  prize  which  has  been  denied  to  brilliance 
and  ambition. 
That  is  the  process  which  is  often  called  dis- 


Friendship  49 

illusionment ;  and  it  is  a  sad  enough  business 
for  people  who  only  look  at  one  side  of  the 
medal,  and  who  brood  over  the  fact  that  they 
have  been  disappointed  and  have  failed.  For 
such  as  these,  there  follow  the  faded  years 
of  cynicism  and  dreariness.  But  that  disil- 
lusionment, that  humiliation,  are  the  freshest 
and  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world  for  peo- 
ple who  have  real  generosity  of  spirit,  and 
whose  vanity  has  been  of  a  superficial  kind, 
because  they  thus  realise  that  these  great  gifts 
are  real  and  true  things,  but  that  they  must 
be  deserved  and  not  captured;  and  then  per- 
haps such  people  begin  their  life-work  afresh, 
in  a  humble  and  hopeful  spirit;  and  if  it  be 
too  late  for  them  to  do  what  they  might  have 
once  done,  they  do  not  waste  time  in  futile 
regret,  but  are  grateful  for  ever  so  little  love 
and  tenderness.  After  all,  they  have  lived, 
they  have  learnt  by  experience;  and  it  does 
not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be.  Somewhere, 
far  hence — who  knows? — we  shall  make  a  bet- 
ter start. 

Some  philosophers  have  devoted  time  and 
thought  to  tracing  backwards  all  our  emo- 
tions to   their   primal   origin;   and   it  is   un- 

4 


50  At  Large 

doubtedly  true  that  in  the  intensest  and  most 
passionate  relationships  of  life — the  love  of  a 
man  for  a  woman,  or  a  mother  for  a  child — 
there  is  a  large  admixture  of  something  phy- 
sical, instinctivej  and  primal.  But  the  fact 
also  remains  that  there  are  unnumbered  re- 
lationships between  all  sorts  of  apparently 
incongruous  persons,  of  which  the  basis  is  not 
physical  desire,  or  the  protective  instinct,  and 
is  not  built  up  upon  any  hope  of  gain  or  profit 
whatsoever.  All  sorts  of  qualities  may  lend 
a  hand  to  strengthen  and  increase  and  con- 
firm these  bonds;  but  what  lies  at  the  base  of 
all  is  simply  a  sort  of  vital  congeniality.  The 
friend  is  the  person  whom  one  is  in  need  of, 
and  by  whom  one  is  heeded.  Life  is  a  sweeter, 
stronger,  fuller,  more  gracious  thing  for  the 
friend's  existence,  whether  he  be  near  or  far; 
if  the  friend  is  close  at  hand,  that  is  best; 
but  if  he  is  far  away  he  is  still  there  to  think 
of,  to  wonder  about,  to  hear  from,  to  write  to, 
to  share  life  and  experience  with,  to  serve,  to 
honour,  to  admire,  to  love.  But  again  it  is 
a  mistake  to  think  that  one  makes  a  friend 
because  of  his  or  her  qualities;  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  qualities  at  all.    If  the  friend  has 


Friendship  51 

noble  qualities,  we  admire  them  because  they 
are  his;  if  he  has  obviously  bad  and  even 
noxious  faults,  how  readily  we  condone  them 
or  overlook  them!  It  is  the  person  that  we 
want,  not  what  he  does  or  says,  or  does  not 
do  or  say,  but  what  he  is!  that  is  eternally 
enough. 

Of  course,  it  does  sometimes  happen  that 
we  think  we  have  made  a  friend,  and  on  closer 
acquaintance  we  find  things  in  him  that  are 
alien  to  our  very  being;  but  even  so,  such  a 
friendship  often  survives,  if  we  have  given  our 
heart,  or  if  affection  has  been  bestowed  upon 
us — affection  which  we  cannot  doubt.  Some 
of  the  richest  friendships  of  all  are  friend- 
ships between  people  whose  whole  view  of  life 
is  sharply  contrasted;  and  then  what  blessed 
energy  can  be  employed  in  defending  one's 
friend,  in  explaining  him  to  other  people,  in 
minimising  faults,  in  emphasising  virtues! 
"  While  the  thunder  lasted,"  says  the  old  In- 
dian proverb,  "  two  bad  men  were  friends." 
That  means  that  a  common  danger  will  some- 
times draw  even  malevolent  people  together. 
But,  for  most  of  us,  the  only  essential  thing 
to  friendship  is  a  kind  of  mutual  trust  and 


52  At  Large 

confidence.  It  does  not  even  shake  our  faith 
to  know  that  our  friend  may  play  other  peo- 
ple false;  we  feel  by  a  kind  of  secret  instinct 
that  he  will  not  play  ns  false;  and  even  if  it 
be  proved  incontestably  that  he  has  played  us 
false,  why,  we  believe  that  he  will  not  do  so 
again,  and  we  have  all  the  pleasure  of 
forgiveness. 

Who  shall  explain  the  extraordinary  in- 
stinct that  tells  us,  perhaps  after  a  single 
meeting,  that  this  or  that  particular  person 
in  some  mysterious  way  matters  to  us.  The 
person  in  question  may  have  no  attractive 
gifts  of  intellect  or  manner  or  personal  ap- 
pearance; but  there  is  some  strange  bond 
between  us;  we  seem  to  have  shared  experi- 
ence together,  somehow  and  somewhere;  he  is 
interesting,  whether  he  speaks  or  is  silent, 
whether  he  agrees  or  disagrees.  We  feel  that 
in  some  secret  region  he  is  congenial.  Est 
mihi  nescio  quid  quod  me  tihi  temperat 
astrum,  says  the  old  Latin  poet — "  There  is 
something,  I  know  not  what,  which  yokes  our 
fortunes,  yours  and  mine."  Sometimes  indeed 
we  are  mistaken,  and  the  momentary  nearness 
fades  and  grows  cold.    But  it  is  not  often  so. 


Friendship  53 

That  peculiar  motion  of  the  heart,  that  secret 
joining  of  hands,  is  based  upon  something 
deep  and  vital,  some  spiritual  kinship^  some 
subtle  likeness. 

Of  course,  we  differ  vastly  in  our  power  of 
attracting  and  feeling  attraction.  I  confess 
that,  for  myself,  I  never  enter  a  new  company 
without  the  hope  that  I  may  discover  a  friend, 
perhaps  the  friend,  sitting  there  with  an  ex- 
pectant smile.  That  hope  survives  a  thousand 
disappointments;  yet  most  of  us  tend  to  make 
fewer  friends  as  time  goes  on,  partly  because 
we  have  not  so  much  emotional  activity  to 
spare,  partly  because  we  become  more  cau- 
tious and  discreet,  and  partly,  too,  because 
we  become  more  aware  of  the  responsibilities 
which  lie  in  the  background  of  a  friendship, 
and  because  we  tend  to  be  more  shy  of  re- 
sponsibility. Some  of  us  become  less  roman- 
tic and  more  comfortable ;  some  of  us  become 
more  diflBdent  about  what  we  have  to  give  in 
return;  some  of  us  begin  to  feel  that  we  can- 
not take  up  new  ideas — none  of  them  very 
good  reasons  perhaps;  but  still,  for  whatever 
reason,  we  make  friends  less  easily.  The  main 
reason  probably  is  that  we  acquire  a  point  of 


54  At  Large 

view,  and  it  is  easier  to  keep  to  that,  and  fit 
people  in  who  accommodate  themselves  to  it, 
than  to  modify  the  point  of  view  with  refer- 
ence to  the  new  personalities.  People  who 
deal  with  life  generously  and  large-heartedly 
go  on  multiplying  relationships  to  the  end. 

Of  course,  as  I  have  said,  there  are  infinite 
grades  of  friendship,  beginning  with  the 
friendship  which  is  a  mere  camaraderie  aris- 
ing out  of  habit  and  proximity;  and  every  one 
ought  to  be  capable  of  forming  this  last  re- 
lationship. The  modest  man,  said  Steven- 
son, finds  his  friendships  ready-made;  by 
which  he  meant  that  if  one  is  generous,  toler- 
ant, and  ungrudging,  then,  instead  of  think- 
ing the  circle  in  which  one  lives  inadequate, 
confined,  and  unsympathetic,  one  gets  the  best 
out  of  it,  and  sees  the  lovable  side  of  ordinary 
human  beings.  Such  friendships  as  these  can 
evoke  perhaps  the  best  and  simplest  kind  of 
loyalty.  It  is  said  that  in  countries  where 
oxen  are  used  for  ploughing  in  double  har- 
ness, there  are  touching  instances  of  an  ox 
pining  away,  and  even  dying,  if  he  loses  his 
accustomed  yoke-fellow.  There  are  such  hu- 
man friendships,  sometimes  formed  on  a  blood 


Friendship  55 

relationship,  suchi  as  the  friendship  of  a 
brother  and  a  sister;  and  sometimes  a  mar- 
riage transforms  itself  into  this  kind  of 
camaraderie,  and  is  a  very  blessed,  quiet,  beau- 
tiful thing. 

And  then  there  are  infinite  gradations,  such 
as  the  friendships  of  old  and  young,  pupils 
and  masters,  parents  and  children,  nurses  and 
nurslings,  employers  and  servants,  all  of  them 
in  a  way  unequal  friendships,  but  capable  of 
evoking  the  deepest  and  purest  kinds  of  de- 
votion: such  famous  friendships  have  been 
Carlyle's  devotion  to  his  parents,  BoswelFs  to 
Johnson,  Stanley's  to  Arnold;  till  at  last  one 
comes  to  the  typical  and  essential  thing  known 
specially  as  friendship — the  passionate,  de- 
voted, equal  bond  which  exists  between  two 
people  of  the  same  age  and  sex ;  many  of  which 
friendships  are  formed  at  school  and  college, 
and  which  often  fade  away  into  a  sort  of 
cordial  glow,  implying  no  particular  commun- 
ion of  life  and  thought.  Marriage  is  often 
the  great  divorcer  of  such  friendships,  and 
circumstances  generally,  which  sever  and 
estrange;  because,  unless  there  is  a  constant 
interchange  of  thought  and  ideas,  increasing 


56  At  Large 

age  tends  to  emphasise  differences.  But  there 
are  instances  of  men  like  Newman  and  Fitz- 
Gerald,  who  kept  up  a  sort  of  romantic  qual- 
ity of  friendship  to  the  end. 

I  remember  the  daughter  of  an  old  clergy- 
man of  my  acquaintance  telling  me  a  pathetic 
and  yet  typical  story  of  the  end  of  one  of  these 
friendships.  Her  father  and  another  elderly 
clergyman  had  been  devoted  friends  in  boy- 
hood and  youth.  Circumstances  led  to  a  sus- 
pension of  intercourse,  but  at  last,  after  a 
gap  of  nearly  thirty  years,  during  which  the 
friends  had  not  met,  it  was  arranged  that 
the  old  comrade  should  come  and  stay  at  the 
vicarage.  As  the  time  approached,  her  father 
grew  visibly  anxious,  and  coupled  his  fre- 
quent expression  of  the  exquisite  pleasure 
which  the  visit  was  going  to  bring  him  with 
elaborate  arrangements  as  to  which  of  his 
family  should  be  responsible  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  old  comrade  at  every  hour  of 
the  day:  the  daughters  were  to  lead  him  out 
walking  in  the  morning,  his  wife  was  to  take 
him  out  to  drive  in  the  afternoon,  and  he 
was  to  share  the  smoking-room  with  a  son, 
who  was  at  home,  in  the  evenings — the  one  ob- 


I 


Friendship  57 

ject  being  that  the  old  gentleman  should  not 
have  to  interrupt  his  own  routine,  or  bear  the 
burden  of  entertaining  a  guest;  and  he  event- 
ually contrived  only  to  meet  him  at  meals, 
when  the  two  old  friends  did  not  appear  to 
have  anything  particular  to  say  to  each  other. 
When  the  visit  was  over,  her  father  used  to 
allude  to  his  guest  with  a  half-compassionate 
air : — "  Poor  Harry,  he  has  aged  terribly — I 
never  saw  a  man  so  changed;  with  such  a 
limited  range  of  interests,  dear  fellow,  he  has 
quite  lost  his  old  humour.  Well,  well!  it  was 
a  great  pleasure  to  see  him  here.  He  was  very 
anxious  that  we  should  go  to  stay  with  him, 
but  I  am  afraid  that  will  be  rather  difficult  to 
manage;  one  is  so  much  at  a  loose  end  in  a 
strange  house,  and  then  one's  correspondence 
gets  into  arrears.  Poor  old  Harry!  What  a 
lively  creature  he  was  up  at  Trinity  to  be 
sure!"  Thus  with  a  sigh  dust  is  committed 
to  dust. 

"  What  passions  our  friendships  were ! " 
said  Thackeray  to  FitzGerald,  speaking  of 
University  days.  There  is  a  shadow  of  melan- 
choly in  the  saying,  because  it  implies  that 
for  Thackeray,  at  all  events,  that  kind  of  glow 


58  At  Large 

had  faded  out  of  life.  Perhaps — who  knows? 
— he  had  accustomed  himself,  with  those 
luminous,  observant,  humorous  eyes,  to  look 
too  deep  into  the  heart  of  man,  to  study  too 
closely  and  too  laughingly  the  seamy  side,  the 
strange  contrast  between  man's  hopes  and  his 
performances,  his  dreams  and  his  deeds. 
Ought  one  to  be  ashamed  if  that  kind  of  gen- 
erous enthusiasm,  that  intensity  of  admira- 
tion, that  vividness  of  sympathy  die  out  of 
one's  heart?  Is  it  possible  to  keep  alive  the 
warmth,  the  colour  of  youth,  suffusing  all  the 
objects  near  it  with  a  lively  and  rosy  glow? 
Some  few  people  seem  to  find  it  possible,  and 
can  add  to  it  a  kind  of  rich  tolerance,  a  lav- 
ish affectionateness,  which  pierces  even  deeper, 
and  sees  even  more  clearly,  than  the  old 
partial  idealisation.  Such  a  large-hearted  af- 
fection is  found  as  a  rule  most  often  in  people 
whose  lives  have  brought  them  into  intimate 
connection  with  their  fellow-creatures — in 
priests,  doctors,  teachers,  who  see  others  not 
in  their  guarded  and  superficial  moments,  but 
in  hours  of  sharp  and  poignant  emotion.  In 
many  cases  the  bounds  of  sympathy  narrow 
themselves   into   the  family  and  the  home — 


Friendship  59 

because  there  only  are  men  brought  into  an 
intimate  connection  with  human  emotion;  be- 
cause to  many  people,  and  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  in  particular,  emotional  situations  are  a 
strain,  and  only  professional  duty,  which  is  a 
strongly  rooted  instinct  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
temperament,  keeps  the  emotional  muscles 
agile  and  responsive. 

Another  thing  which  tends  to  extinguish 
friendships  is  that  many  of  the  people  who 
desire  to  form  them,  and  who  do  form 
them,  wish  to  have  the  pleasures  of  friendship 
without  the  responsibilities.  In  the  self-aban- 
donment of  friendship  we  become  aware  of 
qualities  and  strains  in  the  friend  which  we  do 
not  wholly  like.  One  of  the  most  diflBcult  things 
to  tolerate  in  a  friend  are  faults  which  are 
similar  without  being  quite  the  same.  A  com- 
mon quality,  for  instance,  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,  is  a  touch  of  vulgarity,  which  is  indeed 
the  quality  that  makes  them  practically  suc- 
cessful. A  great  many  Anglo-Saxon  people 
have  a  certain  snobbishness,  to  give  it  a  hard 
name;  it  is  probably  the  poison  of  the 
feudal  system  lurking  in  our  veins.  We  ad- 
mire   success  unduly;  we  like  to  be  respected, 


6o  At  Large 

to  have  a  definite  label,  to  know  the  right 
people. 

I  remember  once  seeing  a  friendship  of  a 
rather  promising  kind  forming  between  two 
people,  one  of  whom  had  a  touch  of  what  I 
may  call  "  county  "  vulgarity,  by  which  I  mean 
an  undue  recognition  of  "  the  glories  of  our 
birth  and  state."  It  was  a  deep-seated 
fault,  and  emerged  in  a  form  which  is  not  un- 
common among  people  of  that  type — namely, 
a  tendency  to  make  friends  with  people  of 
rank,  coupled  with  a  constant  desire  to  detect 
snobbishness  in  other  people.  There  is  no 
surer  sign  of  innate  vulgarity  than  that;  it 
proceeds,  as  a  rule,  from  a  dim  consciousness 
of  the  fault,  combined  with  the  natural  shame 
of  a  high-mined  nature  for  being  subject  to  it. 
In  this  particular  case  the  man  in  question 
sincerely  desired  to  resist  the  fault,  but  he 
could  not  avoid  making  himself  slightly  more 
deferential,  and  consequently  slightly  more 
agreeable,  to  persons  of  position.  If  he 
had  not  suffered  from  the  fault,  he  would 
never  have  given  the  matter  a  thought  at  all. 

The  other  partner  in  the  friendly  enterprise 
had  a  touch  of  a  different  kind  of  snobbish- 


Friendship  6i 

ness — the  middle-class  professional  snobbish- 
ness, which  pays  an  undue  regard  to  success, 
and  gravitates  to  effective  and  distinguished 
people.  As  the  friendship  matured,  each  be- 
came unpleasantly  conscious  of  the  other's 
defect,  while  remaining  unconscious  of  his 
own.  The  result  was  a  perpetual  little  fric- 
tion on  the  point.  If  both  could  have  been 
perfectly  sincere,  and  could  have  confessed 
their  weakness  frankly,  no  harm  would  have 
been  done.  But  each  was  so  sincerely  anxious 
to  present  an  unblemished  soul  to  the  other's 
view,  that  they  could  not  arrive  at  an  under- 
standing on  the  point;  each  desired  to  appear 
more  disinterested  than  he  was ;  and  so,  after 
coming  together  to  a  certain  extent — both 
were  fine  natures — the  presence  of  grit  in  the 
machinery  made  itself  gradually  felt,  and  the 
friendship  melted  away.  It  was  a  case  of  each 
desiring  the  unalloyed  pleasure  of  an  admir- 
ing friendship,  without  accepting  the  respon- 
sibility of  discovering  that  the  other  was  not 
perfection,  and  bearing  that  discovery  loyally 
and  generously.  For  this  is  the  worst  of  a 
friendship  that  begins  in  idealisation  rather 
than  in  comradeship;  and  this  is  the  danger 


62  At  Large 

of  all  people  who  idealise.  When  two  such 
come  together  and  feel  a  mutual  attraction, 
they  display  instinctively  and  unconsciously 
the  best  of  themselves;  but  melancholy  dis- 
coveries supervene;  and  then  what  generally 
happens  is  that  the  idealising  friend  is  angry 
with  the  other  for  disappointing  his  hopes,  not 
with  himself  for  drawing  an  extravagant 
picture. 

Such  friendships  have  a  sort  of  emotional 
sensuality  about  them;  and  to  be  dismayed 
by  later  discoveries  is  to  decline  upon  Rous- 
seau's vice  of  handing  in  his  babies  to  the 
foundling  hospital,  instead  of  trying  to  bring 
them  up  honestly;  what  lies  at  the  base  of  it 
is  the  indolent  shirking  of  the  responsibilities 
for  the  natural  consequences  of  friendship. 
The  mistake  arises  from  a  kind  of  selfishness 
that  thinks  more  of  what  it  wants  and  desires 
to  get  than  of  taking  what  there  is  soberly 
and  gratefully. 

It  is  often  said  that  it  is  the  duty  and  privi- 
lege of  a  friend  to  warn  his  friend  faithfully 
against  his  faults.  I  believe  that  this  is  a 
wholly  mistaken  principle.  The  essence  of 
the  situation  is  rather  a  cordial  partnership, 


Friendship  63 

of  which  the  basis  is  liberty.  What  I  mean  by 
liberty  is  not  a  freedom  from  responsibility, 
but  an  absence  of  obligation.  I  do  not,  of 
course,  mean  that  one  is  to  take  all  one  can 
get  and  give  as  little  as  one  likes,  but  rather 
that  one  must  respect  one's  friend  enough — 
and  that  is  implied  in  the  establishment  of 
the  relation — to  abstain  from  directing  him, 
unless  he  desires  and  asks  for  direction.  The 
telling  of  faults  may  be  safely  left  to  hostile 

critics,  and  to  what  Sheridan  calls  "  d d 

good-natured  "  acquaintances.  But  the  friend 
must  take  for  granted  that  his  friend  desires, 
in  a  general  way,  what  is  good  and  true,  even 
though  he  may  pursue  it  on  different  lines. 
One's  duty  is  to  encourage  and  believe  in  one's 
friend,  not  to  disapprove  of  and  to  censure  him. 
One  loves  him  for  what  he  is,  not  for  what  he 
might  be  if  he  would  only  take  one's  advice. 
The  point  is  that  it  must  be  all  a  free  gift,  not 
a  mutual  improvement  society, — unless,  in- 
deed, that  is  the  basis  of  the  compact.  After 
all,  a  man  can  only  feel  responsible  to  God. 
One  goes  astray,  no  doubt,  like  a  sheep  that  is 
lost;  but  it  is  not  the  duty  of  another  sheep 
to  butt  one  back  into  the  right  way,  unless 


64  At  Large 

indeed  one  appeals  for  help.  One  may  have 
pastors  and  directors,  but  they  can  never  be 
equal  friends.  If  there  is  to  be  superiority 
in  friendship,  the  lesser  must  willingly  crown 
the  greater;  the  greater  must  not  ask  to  be 
crowned.  The  secure  friendship  is  that  which 
begins  in  comradeship,  and  moves  into  a  more 
generous  and  emotional  region.  Then  there  is 
no  need  to  demand  or  to  question  loyalty,  be- 
cause the  tie  has  been  welded  by  many  a  simple 
deed,  many  a  frank  word.  The  ideal  is  a  per- 
fect frankness  and  sincerity,  which  lays  bare 
the  soul  as  it  is,  without  any  false  shame  or 
any  fear  of  misunderstanding.  A  friendship 
of  this  kind  can  be  one  of  the  purest,  bright- 
est, and  strongest  things  in  the  world.  Yet 
how  rare  it  is!  What  far  oftener  happens  is 
that  two  people,  in  a  sensitive  and  emotional 
mood,  are  brought  together.  They  begin  by 
comparing  experiences,  they  search  their 
memories  for  beautiful  and  suggestive  things, 
and  each  feels,  "  This  nature  is  the  true  com- 
plement of  my  own;  what  light  it  seems  to 
shed  on  my  own  problems;  how  subtle,  how 
appreciative  it  is ! "  Then  the  process  of  dis- 
covery  begins.     Instead    of   the   fair    distant 


Friendship  65 

city,  all  spires  and  towers,  which  we  discerned 
in  the  distance  in  a  sort  of  glory,  we  find  that 
there  are  crooked  lanes,  muddy  crossings,  dull 
market-places,  tiresome  houses.  Odd  mis- 
shapen figures,  fretful  and  wearied,  plod 
through  the  streets  or  look  out  at  windows; 
here  is  a  ruin,  with  doleful  creatures  moping 
in  the  shade;  we  overturn  a  stone,  and  blind 
uncanny  things  writhe  away  from  the  light. 
We  begin  to  reflect  that  it  is  after  all  much 
like  other  places,  and  that  our  fine  romantic 
view  of  it  was  due  to  some  accident  of  light 
and  colour,  some  transfiguring  mood  of  our 
own  mind;  and  then  we  set  out  in  search  of 
another  city  which  we  see  crowning  a  hill  on 
the  horizon,  and  leave  the  dull  place  to  its  own 
commonplace  life.  But  to  begin  with  com- 
radeship is  to  explore  the  streets  and  lanes 
first;  and  then  day  by  day,  as  we  go  up  and 
down  in  the  town,  we  become  aware  of  its 
picturesqueness  and  charm;  we  realise  that  it 
has  an  intense  and  eager  life  of  its  own,  which 
we  can  share  as  a  dweller,  though  we  cannot 
touch  it  as  a  visitor ;  and  so  the  wonder  grows, 
and  the  patient  love  of  home.  And  we  have 
surprises,  too:  we  enter  a  door  in  a  wall  that 
s 


66  At  Large 

y^e  have  not  seen  before,  and  we  are  in  a  shrine 
full  of  fragrant  incense-smoke;  the  fallen  day 
comes  richly  through  stained  windows;  fig- 
ures move  at  the  altar,  where  some  holy  rite 
is  being  celebrated.  The  truth  is  that  a 
friendship  cannot  be  formed  in  the  spirit  of 
a  tourist,  who  is  above  all  in  search  of  the 
romantic  and  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  in- 
deed the  wandering  traveller  may  become  the 
patient  and  contented  inhabitant;  but  it  is 
generally  the  other  way,  and  the  best  friend- 
ships are  most  often  those  that  seem  at  first 
sight  dully  made  for  us  by  habit  and  prox- 
imity, and  which  reveal  to  us  by  slow  degrees 
their  beauty  and  their  worth. 


Thus  far  had  I  written,  when  it  came  into 
my  mind  that  I  should  like  to  see  the  reflec- 
tion of  my  beliefs  in  some  other  mind,  to  sub- 
mit them  to  the  test  of  what  I  may  perhaps  be 
forgiven  for  calling  a  spirit-level!  And  so  I 
read  my  essay  to  two  wise,  kindly,  and  gracious 
ladies,  who  have  themselves  often  indeed 
graduated  in  friendship,  and  taken  the  highest 
honours.     I   will   say   nothing  of   the   tender 


Friendship  67 

courtesy  with  which  they  made  their  head- 
breaking  balms  precious;  I  told  them  that  I 
had  not  finished  my  essay,  and  that  before  I 
launched  upon  my  last  antistrophe,  I  wanted 
inspiration.  I  cannot  here  put  down  the 
phrases  they  used,  but  I  felt  that  they  spoke 
in  symbols,  like  two  initiated  persons,  for 
whom  the  corn  and  the  wine  and  the  oil  of  the 
sacrifice  stand  for  very  secret  and  beautiful 
mysteries;  but  they  said  in  effect  that  I  had 
been  depicting,  and  not  untruly,  the  outer 
courts  and  corridors  of  friendship.  What 
they  told  me  of  the  inner  shrine  I  shall  pres- 
ently describe;  but  when  I  asked  them  to 
say  whether  they  could  tell  me  instances  of 
the  best  and  highest  kind  of  friendship,  exist- 
ing and  increasing  and  perfecting  itself  be- 
tween two  men,  or  between  a  man  and  a 
woman,  not  lovers  or  wedded,  they  found  a 
great  difficulty  in  doing  so.  We  sifted  our 
common  experiences  of  friendships,  and  we 
could  find  but  one  or  two  such,  and  these  had 
somewhat  lost  their  bloom.  It  came  then  to 
this:  that  in  the  emotional  region,  many  wo- 
men, but  very  few  men,  can  form  the  highest 
kind  of  tie;  and  we  agreed  that  men  tended 


68  At  Large 

to  find  what  they  needed  in  marriage,  because 
they  were  rather  interested  in  than  dependent 
upon  personal  emotion,  and  because  practical 
life,  as  the  years  went  on — the  life  of  causes 
and  movements  and  organisations  and  ideas 
and  investigations — tended  to  absorb  the  en- 
ergies of  men;  and  that  they  found  their 
emotional  life  in  home  ties;  and  that  the  man 
who  lived  for  emotional  relations  would  tend 
to  be  thought,  if  not  to  be,  a  sentimentalist; 
but  that  the  real  secret  lay  with  women,  and 
with  men  of  perhaps  a  feminine  fibre.  And  all 
this  was  transfused  by  a  kind  of  tender  pity, 
without  any  touch  of  complacency  or  superi- 
ority, such  as  a  mother  might  have  for  the 
whispered  hopes  of  a  child  who  is  lost  in  tiny 
material  dreams.  But  I  gathered  that  there 
was  a  region  in  which  the  heart  could  be  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  a  deep  and  beautiful  ad- 
miration for  some  other  soul,  and  rejoice 
whole-heartedly  in  its  nobleness  and  greatness ; 
so  that  no  question  of  gaining  anything,  or 
even  of  being  helped  to  anything,  came  in,  any 
more  than  one  who  has  long  been  pent  in 
shadow  and  gloom  and  illness,  and  comes  out 
for  the  first  time  into  the  sun,  thinks  of  any 


Friendship  69 

benefits  that  he  may  receive  from  the  caressing 
sunlight;  he  merely  knows  that  it  is  joy  and 
happiness  and  life  to  be  there,  and  to  feel  the 
warm  light  comfort  him  and  make  him  glad; 
and  all  this  I  had  no  difiSculty  in  understand- 
ing, for  I  knew  the  emotion  that  they  spoke 
of,  though  I  called  it  by  a  different  name.  I 
saw  that  it  was  love  indeed,  but  love  infinitely 
purified,  and  with  all  the  sense  of  possession 
that  mingles  with  masculine  love  subtracted 
from  it;  and  how  such  a  relation  might  grow 
and  increase,  until  there  arose  a  sort  of  secret 
and  vital  union  of  spirit,  more  real  indeed  than 
time  and  space,  so  that,  even  if  this  were  di- 
vorced and  sundered  by  absence,  or  the  clouded 
mind,  or  death  itself,  there  could  be  no  shadow 
of  doubt  as  to  the  permanence  of  the  tie;  and 
a  glance  passed  between  the  two  as  they 
spoke,  which  made  me  feel  like  one  who  hears 
an  organ  rolling,  and  voices  rising  in  sweet 
harmonies  inside  some  building,  locked  and 
barred,  which  he  may  not  enter.  I  could  not 
doubt  that  the  music  was  there,  while  I  knew 
that  for  some  dulness  or  belatedness  I  was 
myself  shut  out;  not,  indeed,  that  I  doubted 
of  the  truth  of  what  was  said,  but  I  was  in  the 


70  At  Large 

position  of  the  old  saint  who  said  that  he  be- 
lieved, and  prayed  to  One  to  help  his  unbelief. 
For  I  saw  that  though  I  projected  the  lines  of 
my  own  experience  infinitely,  adding  loyalty 
to  loyalty,  and  admiration  to  admiration,  it 
was  all  on  a  different  plane.  This  interfusion 
of  personality,  this  vital  union  of  soul,  I  could 
not  doubt  it!  but  it  made  me  feel  my  own 
essential  isolation  still  more  deeply,  as  when 
the  streaming  sunlight  strikes  warmth  and 
glow  out  of  the  fire,  revealing  crumbling  ashes 
where  a  moment  before  had  been  a  heart  of 
flame. 

"  Ah  te  meae  si  partem  animse  rapit 
Maturior  vis,  quid  moror  altera?" — 

"Ah,  if  the  violence  of  fate  snatch  thee  from 
me,  thou  half  of  my  soul,  how  can  I,  the  other 
half,  still  linger  here?"  So  wrote  the  old 
cynical,  worldly,  Latin  poet  of  his  friend — 
that  poet  whom,  for  all  his  deftness  and  grace, 
we  are  apt  to  accuse  of  a  certain  mundane 
heartlessness,  though  once  or  twice  there 
flickers  up  a  sharp  flame  from  the  comfort- 
able warmth  of  the  pile.  Had  he  the  secret 
hidden  in  his  heart  all  the  time?    If  one  could 


Friendship  71 

dream  of  a  nearness  like  that,  which  doubts 
nothing,  and  questions  nothing,  but  which 
teaches  the  soul  to  move  in  as  unconscious  a 
unison  with  another  soul  as  one's  two  eyes 
move,  so  that  the  brain  cannot  distinguish  be- 
tween the  impressions  of  each,  would  not  that 
be  worth  the  loss  of  all  that  we  hold  most 
sweet?  We  pay  a  price  for  our  qualities;  the 
thistle  cannot  become  the  vine,  or  the  oak  the 
rose,  by  admiration  or  desire.  But  we  need 
not  doubt  of  the  divine  alchemy  that  gives 
good  gifts  to  others,  and  denies  them  to  our- 
selves. And  thus  I  can  gratefully  own  that 
there  are  indeed  these  high  mysteries  of  friend- 
ship, and  I  can  be  glad  to  discern  them  afar 
off,  as  the  dweller  on  the  high  moorland,  in 
the  wind-swept  farm,  can  see,  far  away  in  the 
woodland  valley,  the  smoke  go  up  from  happy 
cottage-chimneys,  nestled  in  leaves,  and  the 
spire  point  a  hopeful  finger  up  to  heaven.  Life 
would  be  a  poorer  thing  if  we  had  all  that  we 
desired,  and  it  is  permitted  to  hope  that  if  we 
are  faithful  with  our  few  things,  we  may  be 
made  rulers  over  many  things! 


Humour 

THEKE  is  a  pleasant  story  of  a  Cambridge 
undergraduate  finding  it  necessary  to 
expound  the  four  allegorical  figures  that  crown 
the  parapet  of  Trinity  Library.  They  are  the 
Learned  Muses,  as  a  matter  of  fact  "  What 
are  those  figures,  Jack?"  said  an  ardent  sis- 
ter, labouring  under  the  false  feminine  im- 
pression that  men  like  explaining  things. 
"  Those,"  said  Jack,  observing  them  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life — "  those  are  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity,  of  course."  "Oh!  but  there  are 
four  of  them,"  said  the  irrepressible  fail*  one. 
"What  is  the  other?"  Jack,  not  to  be  dis- 
mayed, gave  a  hasty  glance;  and,  observing 
what  may  be  called  philosophical  instru- 
ments in  the  hands  of  the  statue,  said  firmly, 
"That  is  Geography."  It  made  a  charming 
quaternion. 

72 


Humour  73 

I  have  often  felt,  myself,  that  the  time  has 
come  to  raise  another  figure  to  the  hierarchy 
of  Christian  graces.  Faith,  Hope,  and  Char- 
ity were  sufficient  in  a  more  elementary  and 
barbarous  age;  but,  now  that  the  world  has 
broadened  somewhat,  I  think  an  addition  to 
the  trio  is  demanded.  A  man  may  be  faith- 
ful, hopeful,  and  charitable,  and  yet  leave  much 
to  be  desired.  He  may  be  useful,  no  doubt, 
with  that  equipment,  but  he  may  also  be  both 
tiresome  and  even  absurd.  The  fourth  quality 
that  I  should  like  to  see  raised  to  the  highest 
rank  among  Christian  graces  is  the  Grace  of 
Humour. 

I  do  not  think  that  Humour  has  ever  en- 
joyed its  due  repute  in  the  ethical  scale.  The 
possession  of  it  saves  a  man  from  priggish- 
ness;  and  the  possession  of  faith,  hope,  and 
charity  does  not.  Indeed,  not  only  do  these 
three  virtues  not  save  a  man  from  priggish- 
ness — they  sometimes  even  plunge  him  in  ir- 
reclaimable depths  of  superiority.  I  suppose 
that  when  Christianity  was  first  making  itself 
felt  in  the  world  the  one  quality  needfill  was 
a  deep-seated  and  enthusiastic  earnestness. 
There  is  nothing  that  makes  life  so  enjoyable 


74  At  Large 

as  being  in  earnest.  It  is  not  the  light,  laugh- 
ter-loving, jocose  people  who  have  the  best  time 
in  the  world.  They  have  a  checkered  career. 
They  skip  at  times  upon  the  hills  of  merri- 
ment, but  they  also  descend  gloomily  at  other 
times  into  the  valleys  of  dreariness.  But  the 
man  who  is  in  earnest  is  generally  neither 
merry  nor  dreary.  He  has  not  time  to  be 
either.  The  early  Christians,  engaged  in  leav- 
ening the  world,  had  no  time  for  levity  or  list- 
lessness.  A  pioneer  cannot  be  humorous. 
But  now  that  the  world  is  leavened  and  Christ- 
ian principles  are  theoretically,  if  not  prac- 
tically, taken  for  granted,  a  new  range  of 
qualities  comes  in  sight.  By  humour  I  do  not 
mean  a  taste  for  irresponsible  merriment;  for, 
though  humour  is  not  a  necessarily  melan- 
choly thing,  in  this  imperfect  world  the  hu- 
mourist sighs  as  often  as  he  smiles.  What  I 
mean  by  it  is  a  keen  perception  of  the  rich  in- 
congruities and  absurdities  of  life,  its  undue 
solemnity,  its  guileless  pretentiousness.  To 
be  true  humour,  it  must  not  be  at  all  a  cynical 
thing — as  soon  as  it  becomes  cynical  it  loses 
all  its  natural  grace;  it  is  an  essentially  ten- 
der-hearted quality,  apt  to  find  excuse,  ready 


Humour  75 

to  condone,  eager  to  forgive.  The  professor  of 
it  can  never  be  ridiculous,  or  heavy,  or  supe- 
rior. Wit,  of  course,  is  a  very  small  province 
of  humour:  wit  is  to  humour  what  lightning 
is  to  the  electric  fluid — a  vivid,  bright,  crack- 
ling symptom  of  it  in  certain  conditions;  but 
a  man  may  be  deeply  and  essentially  humor- 
ous and  never  say  a  witty  thing  in  his  life. 
To  be  witty,  one  has  to  be  fanciful,  intellect- 
ual, deft,  light-hearted;  and  the  humourist 
need  be  none  of  these  things. 

In  religion,  the  absence  of  a  due  sense  of 
humour  has  been  the  cause  of  some  of  our 
worst  disasters.  All  rational  people  know 
that  what  has  done  most  to  depress  and  dis- 
count religion  is  ecclesiasticism.  The  spirit 
of  ecclesiasticism  is  the  spirit  that  confuses 
proportions,  that  loves  what  is  unimportant, 
that  hides  great  principles  under  minute  rules, 
that  sacrifices  simplicity  to  complexity,  that 
adores  dogma,  and  definition,  and  labels  of 
every  kind,  that  substitutes  the  letter  for  the 
spirit.  The  greatest  misfortune  that  can  be- 
fall religion  is  that  it  should  become  logical, 
that  it  should  evolve  a  reasoned  system  from 
insufficient  data ;  but  humour  abhors  logic,  and 


76  At  Large 


cannot  pin  its  faith  on  insecure  deductions. 
The  heaviest  burden  which  religion  can  have 
to  bear  is  the  burden  of  tradition,  and  humour 
is  the  determined  foe  of  everything  that  is 
conventional  and  traditional.  The  Pharisaical 
spirit  loves  precedent  and  authority;  the  hu- 
morous spirit  loves  all  that  is  swift  and 
shifting  and  subversive  and  fresh.  One  of  the 
reasons  why  the  orthodox  heaven  is  so  depress- 
ing a  place  is  that  there  seems  to  be  no  room 
in  it  for  laughter;  it  is  all  harmony  and  meek- 
ness, sanctified  by  nothing  but  the  gravest  of 
smiles.  What  wonder  that  humanity  is  de- 
jected at  the  thought  of  an  existence  from 
which  all  possibility  of  innocent  absurdity  and 
kindly  mirth  is  subtracted — ^the  only  things 
which  have  persistently  lightened  and  beguiled 
the  earthly  pilgrimage!  That  is  why  the  death 
of  a  humorous  person  has  so  deep  an  added 
tinge  of  melancholy  about  it — because  it  is 
apt  to  seem  indecorous  to  think  of  what 
was  his  most  congenial  and  charming  trait 
still  finding  scope  for  its  exercise.  We 
are  never  likely  to  be  able  to  tolerate  the 
thought  of  death  while  we  continue  to  think 
of   it   as    a   thing   which    will    rob   humanity 


Humour  77 

of    some    of    its    richest    and    most    salient 
characteristics. 

Even  the  ghastly  humour  of  Milton  is  a 
shade  better  than  this.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  he  makes  the  archangel  say  to 
Adam  that  astronomy  has  been  made  by  the 
Creator  a  complicated  subject,  in  order  that 
the  bewilderment  of  scientific  men  may  be  a 
matter  of  entertainment  to  Him! 

He  His  fabric  of  the  Heavens 
Hath  left  to  their  disputes,  perhaps  to  move 
His  laughter  at  their  quaint  opinions  wide. 

Or,  again,  we  may  remember  the  harsh  con- 
tortions of  dry  cachinnation  indulged  in  by 
the  rebel  spirits,  when  they  have  succeeded  in 
toppling  over  with  their  artillery  the  armed 
hosts  of  Seraphim.  Milton  certainly  did  not 
intend  to  subtract  all  humour  from  the  celes- 
tial regions.  The  only  pity  was  that  he  had 
not  himself  emerged  beyond  the  childish  stage, 
which  finds  its  deepest  amusement  in  the  dis- 
asters and  catastrophes  of  stately  persons. 

It  may  be  asked  whether  we  have  any  war- 
rant in  the  Gospel  for  the  Christian  exercise 
of  humour.    I  have  no  doubt  of  it  myself.    The 


78  At  Large 

image  of  the  children  in  the  market-place  who 
cannot  get  their  peevish  companions  to  join  in 
games,  whether  merry  or  mournful,  as  illus- 
trating the  attitude  of  the  Pharisees  who 
blamed  John  the  Baptist  for  asceticism  and 
Christ  for  sociability,  is  a  touch  of  real  hu- 
mour ;  and  the  story  of  the  importunate  widow 
with  the  unjust  judge,  who  betrayed  so  naively 
his  principle  of  judicial  action  by  saying 
"  Though  I  fear  not  God,  neither  regard  men, 
yet  will  I  avenge  this  widow,  lest  by  her  con- 
tinual coming  she  weary  me,"  must — I  cannot 
believe  otherwise — have  been  intended  to  pro- 
voke the  hearers'  mirth.  There  is  not,  of 
course,  any  superabundance  of  such  instances, 
but  Christ's  reporters  were  not  likely  to  be  on 
the  look-out  for  sayings  of  this  type.  Yet  I 
find  it  impossible  to  believe  that  One  who 
touched  all  the  stops  of  the  human  heart,  and 
whose  stories  are  among  the  most  beautiful 
and  vivid  things  ever  said  in  the  world,  can 
have  exercised  His  unequalled  power  over  hu- 
man nature  without  allowing  His  hearers  to 
be  charmed  by  many  humorous  and  incisive 
touches,  as  well  as  by  more  poetical  and  emo- 
tional images.     No  one  has  ever  swayed  the 


Humour  79 

human  mind  in  so  unique  a  fashion  without 
holding  in  his  hand  all  the  strings  that  move 
and  stir  the  faculties  of  delighted  apprehen- 
sion; and  of  these  faculties  humour  is  one 
of  the  foremost.  The  amazing  lightness  of 
Christ's  touch  upon  life,  the  way  in  which  His 
words  plumbed  the  depths  of  personality, 
make  me  feel  abundantly  sure  that  there  was 
no  dreary  sense  of  overwhelming  seriousness 
in  His  relations  with  His  friends  and  disciples. 
Believing  as  we  do  that  He  was  Perfect  Man, 
we  surely  cannot  conceive  of  one  of  the  sweet- 
est and  most  enlivening  of  all  human  qualities 
as  being  foreign  to  His  character. 

Otherwise  there  is  little  trace  of  humour 
in  the  New  Testament.  St.  Paul,  one  would 
think,  would  have  had  little  sympathy  with 
humourists.  He  was  too  fiery,  too  militant, 
too  much  preoccupied  with  the  working  out 
of  his  ideas,  to  have  the  leisure  or  the  inclina- 
tion to  take  stock  of  humanity.  Indeed  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  if  he  had  had  some 
touch  of  the  quality,  he  might  have  given  a  dif- 
ferent bias  to  the  faith;  his  application  of  the 
method  which  he  had  inherited  from  the  Jew- 
ish school  of  theology,  coupled  with  his  own 


8o  At  Large 

fervid  rhetoric,  was  the  first  step,  I  have  often 
thought,  in  disengaging  the  Christian  develop- 
ment from  the  simplicity  and  emotion  of  the 
first  unclouded  message,  in  transferring  the 
faith  from  the  region  of  pure  conduct  and 
sweet  tolerance  into  a  province  of  fierce  defi- 
nition and  intellectual  interpretation. 

I  think  it  was  Goethe  who  said  that  Greek 
was  the  sheath  into  which  the  dagger  of  the 
human  mind  fitted  best ;  and  it  is  true  that  one 
finds  among  the  Greeks  the  brightest  efflores- 
cence of  the  human  mind.  Who  shall  account 
for  that  extraordinary  and  fragrant  flower, 
the  flower  of  Greek  culture,  so  perfect  in 
curve  and  colour,  in  proportion  and  scent, 
opening  so  suddenly,  in  such  a  strange  isola- 
tion, so  long  ago,  upon  the  human  stock? 
The  Greeks  had  the  wonderful  combination  of 
childish  zest  side  by  side  with  mature  taste; 
x'apts,  as  they  called  it — a  perfect  charm,  an 
instinctive  grace — was  the  mark  of  their  spirit. 
And  we  should  naturally  expect  to  find  in 
their  literature  the  same  sublimation  of  hu- 
mour that  we  find  in  their  other  qualities. 
Unfortunately  the  greater  number  of  their 
comedies  are  lost.    Of  Menander  we  have  but  a 


Humour  8i 

few  tiny  fragments,  as  it  were,  of  a  delectable 
vase;  but  in  Aristophanes  there  is  a  delicious 
levity,  an  incomparable  prodigality  of  laugh- 
ter-moving absurdities,  which  has  possibly 
never  been  equalled.  Side  by  side  with  that 
is  the  tender  and  charming  irony  of  Plato, 
who  is  even  more  humorous,  if  less  witty,  than 
Aristophanes.  But  the  Greeks  seem  to  have 
been  alone  in  their  application  of  humour  to 
literature.  In  the  older  world  literature 
tended  to  be  rather  a  serious,  pensive,  stately 
thing,  concerned  with  human  destiny  and  ar- 
tistic beauty.  One  searches  in  vain  for  hu- 
mour in  the  energetic  and  ardent  Roman  mind. 
Their  very  comedies  were  mostly  adaptations 
from  the  Greek.  I  have  never  myself  been 
able  to  discern  the  humour  of  Terence  or 
Plautus  to  any  great  extent.  The  humour  of 
the  latter  is  of  a  brutal  and  harsh  kind;  and 
it  has  always  been  a  marvel  to  me  that  Luther 
said  that  the  two  books  he  would  take  to  be 
his  companions  on  a  desert  island  would  be 
Plautus  and  the  Bible.  Horace  and  Martial 
have  a  certain  deft  appreciation  of  human 
weakness,  but  it  is  of  the  nature  of  smartness 
rather  than  of  true  humour — the  wit  of  the 
6 


82  At  Large 

satirist  rather;  and  then  the  curtain  falls  on 
the  older  world. 

When  humour  next  makes  its  appearance,  in 
France  and  England  pre-eminently,  we  realise 
that  we  are  in  the  presence  of  a  far  larger  and 
finer  quality;  and  now  we  have,  so  to  speak, 
whole  bins  full  of  liquors,  of  various  brands 
and  qualities,  from  the  mirthful  absurdities 
of  the  English,  the  pawky  gravity  of  the 
Scotch,  to  the  dry  and  sparkling  beverage  of 
the  American.  To  give  an  historical  sketch  of 
the  growth  and  development  of  modern  hu- 
mour would  be  a  task  that  might  well  claim 
the  energies  of  some  literary  man ;  it  seems  to 
me  surprising  that  some  German  philosopher 
has  not  attempted  a  scientific  classification  of 
the  subject.  It  would  perhaps  be  best  done 
by  a  man  without  appreciation  of  humour,  be- 
cause only  then  could  one  hope  to  escape  be- 
ing at  the  mercy  of  preferences ;  it  would  have 
to  be  studied  purely  as  a  phenomenon,  a  symp- ; 
tom  of  the  mind;  and  nothing  but  an  over- 
whelming love  of  classification  would  carry  a 
student  past  the  sense  of  its  unimportance. 
But  here  I  would  rather  attempt  not  to  find 
a  formula  or  a  definition  for  humour,  but  to 


Humour  83 

discover  what  it  is,  like  argoiij  by  eliminating 
other  characteristics  until  the  evasive  quality 
alone  remains. 

It  lies  deep  in  nature.  The  peevish  mouth 
and  the  fallen  eye  of  the  plaice,  the  helpless 
rotundity  of  the  sunfish,  the  mournful  gai)e 
and  rolling  glance  of  the  goldfish,  the  furious 
and  ineffective  mien  of  the  barndoor  fowl,  the 
wild  grotesqueness  of  the  babyroussa  and  the 
wart-hog,  the  crafty  solemn  eye  of  the  parrot, 
— if  such  things  as  these  do  not  testify  to  a 
sense  of  humour  in  the  Creative  Spirit,  it  is 
hard  to  account  for  the  fact  that  in  man  a 
perception  is  implanted  which  should  find  such 
sights  pleasurably  entertaining  from  infancy 
upwards.  I  suppose  the  root  of  the  matter 
is  that,  insensibly  comparing  these  facial  at- 
tributes with  the  expression  of  humanity,  one 
credits  the  animals  above  described  with  the 
emotions  which  they  do  not  necessarily  feel; 
yet  even  so  it  is  hard  to  analyse,  because 
grotesque  exaggerations  of  human  features 
which  are  perfectly  normal  and  natural  seem 
calculated  to  move  the  amusement  of  human- 
ity quite  instinctively.  A  child  is  apt  to  be 
alarmed   at  first  by  what  is   grotesque,   and, 


84  At  Large 

when  once  reassured,  to  find  in  it  a  matter  of 
delight.  Perhaps  the  mistake  we  make  is  to 
credit  Creative  Spirit  with  human  emotions; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how 
complex  emotions,  not  connected  with  any 
material  needs  and  impulses,  can  be  found 
existing  in  organisms,  unless  the  same  emo- 
tions exist  in  the  mind  of  their  Creator.  If 
the  thrush  bursts  into  song  on  the  bare  bush 
at  evening,  if  the  child  smiles  to  see  the  bulg- 
ing hairy  cactus,  there  must  be,  I  think,  some- 
thing joyful  and  smiling  at  the  heart,  the 
inmost  cell  of  nature,  loving  beauty  and  laugh- 
ter; indeed,  beauty  and  mirth  must  be  the  nat- 
ural signs  of  health  and  content.  And  then 
there  strike  in  upon  the  mind  two  thoughts: 
Is,  perhaps,  the  basis  of  humour  a  kind  of 
selfish  security?  Does  one  primarily  laugh  at 
all  that  is  odd,  grotesque,  broken,  ill  at  ease, 
fantastic,  because  such  things  heighten  the 
sense  of  one's  own  health  and  security?  I  do 
not  mean  that  this  is  the  flower  of  modern 
humour;  but  is  it  not,  perhaps,  the  root?  Is 
not  the  basis  of  laughter  perhaps  the  purely 
childish  and  selfish  impulse  to  delight  not  in 
the  sufferings  of  others,  but  in  the  sense  which 


Humour  85 

all  distorted  things  minister  to  one — that  one 
is  temporarily,  at  least,  more  blest  than  they? 
A  child  does  not  laugh  for  pure  happiness — 
when  it  is  happiest,  it  is  most  grave  and  sol- 
emn; but  when  the  sense  of  its  health  and 
soundness  is  brought  home  to  it  poignantly, 
then  it  laughs  aloud,  just  as  it  laughs  flt  the 
pleasant  pain  of  being  tickled,  because  the 
tiny  uneasiness  throws  into  relief  its  sense  of 
secure  well-being. 

And  the  further  thought — a  deep  and  strange 
one — is  this:  We  see  how  all  mortal  things 
have  a  certain  curve  or  cycle  of  life — youth, 
maturity,  age.  May  not  that  law  of  being  run 
deeper  still?  We  think  of  nature  being  ever 
strong,  ever  young,  ever  joyful;  but  may  not 
the  very  shadow  of  sorrow  and  suffering  in 
the  world  be  the  sign  that  nature  too  grows 
old  and  weary?  May  there  have  been  a  dim 
age,  far  back  beyond  history  or  fable  or  scien- 
tific record,  when  she,  too,  was  young  and  light- 
hearted?  The  sorrows  of  the  world  are  at 
present  not  like  the  sorrows  of  age,  but  the 
sorrows  of  maturity.  There  is  no  decrepitude 
in  the  world:  its  heart  is  restless,  vivid,  and 
hopeful  yet;  its  melancholy  is  as  the  melan- 


86  At  Large 

choly  of  youth — a  melancholy  deeply  tinged 
with  beauty ;  it  is  full  of  boundless  visions  and 
eager  dreams;  though  it  is  thwarted,  it  be- 
lieves in  its  ultimate  triumph ;  and  the  growth 
of  humour  in  the  world  may  be  just  the 
shadow  of  hard  fact  falling  upon  the  generous 
vision,  for  that  is  where  humour  resides: 
youth  believes  glowingly  that  all  things  are 
possible,  but  maturity  sees  that  to  hope  is  not 
to  execute,  and  acquiesces  smilingly  in  the 
incongruity  between  the  programme  and  the 
performance. 

Humour  resides  in  the  perception  of  limita- 
tion, in  discerning  how  often  the  conventional 
principle  is  belied  by  the  actual  practice. 
The  old  world  was  full  of  youthful  sense  of  its 
own  importance;  it  held  that  all  things  were 
created  for  man — that  the  flower  was  de- 
signed to  yield  him  colour  and  fragrance,  that 
the  beast  of  the  earth  was  made  to  give  him 
food  and  sport.  This  philosophy  was  summed 
up  in  the  phrase  that  man  was  the  measure 
of  all  things;  but  now  we  have  learned  that  man 
is  but  the  most  elaborate  of  created  organisms, 
and  that  just  as  there  was  a  time  when  man 
did  not  exist,  so  there  may  be  a  time  to  come 


Humour  87 

when  beings  infinitely  more  elaborate  may 
look  back  to  man  as  we  look  back  to  trilobites 
— those  strange  creatures,  like  huge  wood-lice, 
that  were  in  their  day  the  glory  and  crown  of 
creation.  Perhaps  our  dreams  of  supremacy 
and  finality  may  be  in  reality  the  absurdest 
thing  in  the  world  for  their  pomposity  and 
pretentiousness.    Who  can  say? 

But  to  retrace  our  steps  awhile.  It  seems 
that  the  essence  of  humour  is  a  certain  per- 
ception of  incongruity.  Let  us  take  a  single 
instance.  There  is  a  story  of  a  drunken  man 
who  was  observed  to  feel  his  way  several  times 
all  round  the  railings  of  a  London  square, 
with  the  intention  apparently  of  finding  some 
way  of  getting  in.  At  last  he  sat  down,  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands  and  burst  into 
tears,  saying,  with  deep  pathos,  "  I  am  shut 
in !  "  In  a  sense  it  was  true :  if  the  rest  of  the 
world  was  his  prison,  and  the  garden  of  the 
square  represented  liberty,  he  was  undoubtedly 
incarcerated.  Or,  again,  take  the  story  of  the 
Scotchman  returning  from  a  convivial  occa- 
sion, who  had  jumped  carefully  over  the 
shadows  of  the  lamp-posts,  but  on  coming  to 
the  shadow  of  the  church-tower  ruefully  took 


88  At  Large 

off  his  boots  and  stockings,  and  turned  his 
trousers  up,  saying,  "  I  '11  ha'e  to  wade."  The 
reason  why  the  stories  of  drunken  persons  are 
often  so  indescribably  humorous,  though,  no 
doubt,  highly  deplorable  in  a  Christian  coun- 
try, is  that  the  victim  loses  all  sense  of  prob- 
ability and  proportion,  and  laments  unduly 
over  an  altogether  imaginary  diflSculty.  The 
appreciation  of  such  situations  is  in  reality 
the  same  as  the  common  and  barbarous  form 
df  humour,  of  which  we  have  already  spoken, 
which  consists  of  being  amused  at  the  disas- 
ters which  befall  others.  The  stage  that  is  but 
slightly  removed  from  the  lowest  stage  is  the 
theory  of  practical  jokes,  the  humour  of  which 
is  the  pleasure  of  observing  the  actions  of  a 
person  in  a  disagreeable  predicament  which 
is  not  so  serious  as  the  victim  supposes.  And 
thus  we  get  to  the  region  illustrated  by  the 
two  stories  I  have  told,  where  the  humour  lies 
in  the  observation  of  one  in  a  predicament 
that  appears  to  be  of  a  tragic  character,  when 
the  tragic  element  is  purely  imaginary.  And 
so  we  pass  into  the  region  of  intellectual 
humour,  which  may  be  roughly  illustrated  by 
such   sayings   as   that   of   George   Sand   that 


Humour  89 

nothing  is  such  a  restorative  as  rhetoric,  or 
the  claim  advanced  by  a  patriot  that  Shake- 
speare was  undoubtedly  a  Scotchman,  on  the 
ground  that  his  talents  would  justify  the 
supposition.  The  humour  of  George  Sand's 
epigram  depends  upon  the  perception  that 
rhetoric,  which  ought  to  be  based  upon  a  pro- 
found conviction,  an  overwhelming  passion,  an 
intense  enthusiasm,  is  often  little  more  than 
the  abandonment  of  a  personality  to  a  mood 
of  intoxicating  ebullience;  while  the  humour 
of  the  Shakespeare  story  lies  in  a  sense  of  the 
way  in  which  a  national  predilection  will 
override  all  reasonable  evidence. 

It  will  be  recognised  how  much  of  our  hu- 
mour depends  upon  our  keen  perception  of 
the  weaknesses  and  imperfections  of  other 
nationalities.  A  great  statesman  once  said 
that  if  a  Scotchman  applied  for  a  post  and 
was  unsuccessful,  his  one  object  became  to 
secure  the  post  for  another  Scotchman;  while 
if  an  Irishman  made  an  unsuccessful  applica- 
tion, his  only  aim  was  to  prevent  any  other 
Irishman  from  obtaining  the  post.  That  is  a 
humorous  way  of  contrasting  the  jealous 
patriotism   of   the   Scot  with   the   passionate 


Qo  At  Large 

individualism  of  the  Celt.  The  curious  factor 
of  this  species  of  humour  is  that  we  are  en- 
tirely unable  to  recognise  the  typicality  of  the 
caricatures  which  other  nations  draw  of  our- 
selves. A  German  fails  to  recognise  the  Eng- 
lish idea  of  the  German  as  a  man  who,  after 
a  meal  of  gigantic  proportions  and  incredible 
potations,  amidst  the  smoke  of  endless  cigars, 
will  discuss  the  terminology  of  the  absolute, 
and  burst  into  tears  over  a  verse  of  poetry  or 
a  strain  of  music.  Similarly  the  Englishman 
cannot  divine  what  is  meant  by  the  English- 
man of  the  French  stage,  with  his  long 
whiskers,  his  stiff  pepper-and-salt  clothes, 
walking  arm-in-arm  with  a  raw-boned  wife, 
ehort-skirted  and  long-toothed,  with  a  bevy 
of  short-skirted  and  long-toothed  daughters 
walking  behind. 

But  if  it  requires  a  robust  humourist  to  per- 
ceive the  absurdity  of  his  own  nation,  what 
intensity  of  humour  is  required  for  a  man  to 
see  the  absurdity  of  himself!  To  acquiesce  in 
appearing  ridiculous  is  the  height  of  philoso- 
phy. We  are  glad  enough  to  amuse  other  peo- 
ple intentionally,  but  how  many  men  does  one 
know  who  do  not  resent  amusing  other  people 


Humour  91 

unintentionally?  Yet  if  one  were  a  true  phi- 
lanthropist, how  delighted  we  ought  to  be  to 
afford  to  others  a  constant  feast  of  innocent 
and  joyful  contemplation. 

But  the  fact  which  emerges  from  all  these 
considerations  is  the  fact  that  we  do  not  give 
humour  its  place  of  due  dignity  in  the  moral 
and  emotional  scale.  The  truth  is  that  we  in 
England  have  fallen  into  a  certain  groove  of 
humour  of  late,  the  humour  of  paradox.  The 
formula  which  lies  at  the  base  of  our  present 
output  of  humour  is  the  formula,  "  Whatever 
is,  is  wrong."  The  method  has  been  over- 
organised,  and  the  result  is  that  humour  can 
be  manufactured  in  unlimited  quantities.  The 
type  of  such  humour  is  the  saying  of  the  hu- 
mourist that  he  went  about  the  world  with  one 
dread  constantly  hanging  over  him — "  the 
dread  of  not  being  misunderstood."  I  would 
not  for  a  moment  deny  the  quality  of  such 
humour,  but  it  grows  vapid  and  monotonous. 
It  is  painful  to  observe  the  clever  young  man 
of  the  present  day,  instead  of  aiming  at  the 
expression  of  things  beautiful  and  emotional 
which  he  is  often  well  equipped  to  produce, 
with  all  the  charm  of  freshness  and  indiscre- 


92  At  Large 

tion,  turn  aside  to  smart  writing  of  a  cynical 
type,  because  he  cannot  bear  to  be  thought 
immature.  He  wants  to  see  the  effect  of  his 
cleverness,  and  the  envious  smile  of  the 
slower-witted  is  dearer  to  him  than  the  secret 
kindling  of  a  sympathetic  mind.  Real  humour 
is  a  broader  and  a  deeper  thing,  and  it  can 
hardly  be  attained  until  a  man  has  had  some 
acquaintance  with  the  larger  world;  and  that 
very  experience,  in  natures  that  are  emotional 
rather  than  patient,  often  tends  to  extinguish 
humour  because  of  the  knowledge  that  life  is 
really  rather  too  sad  and  serious  a  business 
to  afford  amusement.  The  man  who  becomes 
a  humourist  is  the  man  who  contrives  to  re- 
tain a  certain  childlike  zest  and  freshness  of 
mind  side  by  side  with  a  large  and  tender 
tolerance.  This  state  of  mind  is  not  one  to 
be  diligently  sought  after.  The  humourist 
nascitur  non  fit.  One  sees  young  men  of  ir- 
responsible levity  drawn  into  the  interest  of  a 
cause  or  a  profession,  and  we  say  sadly  of 
them  that  they  have  lost  their  sense  of  hu- 
mour. They  are  probably  both  happier  and 
more  useful  for  having  lost  it.  The  humourist 
is  seldom  an  apostle  or  a  leader.    But  one  does 


Humour  93 

occasionally  find  a  man  of  real  genius  who 
adds  to  a  deep  and  vital  seriousness  a  de- 
lightful perception  of  the  superficial  absurdi- 
ties of  life;  who  is  like  a  river,  at  once  strong 
and  silent  beneath,  with  sunny  ripples  and 
bright  water-breaks  upon  the  surface.  Most 
men  must  be  content  to  flow  turbid  and  sullen, 
turning  the  mills  of  life  or  bearing  its  barges; 
others  may  dash  and  flicker  through  existence, 
like  a  shallow  stream.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it 
may  be  said  that  to  be  a  real  humourist  there 
must  be  a  touch  of  hardness  somewhere,  a 
bony  carapace,  because  we  seldom  see  one  of 
very  strong  and  ardent  emotions  who  is  a 
true  humourist ;  and  this  is,  I  suppose,  the  rea- 
son why  women,  as  a  rule,  are  so  far  less  hu- 
morous than  men.  We  have  to  pay  a  price 
for  our  good  qualities;  and  though  I  had  rather 
be  strong,  affectionate,  loyal,  noble-minded, 
than  be  the  best  humourist  in  the  world,  yet 
if  a  gift  of  humour  be  added  to  these  graces 
you  have  a  combination  that  is  absolutely 
irresistible,  because  you  have  a  perfect  sense 
of  proportion  that  never  allows  emotion  to 
degenerate  into  gush,  or  virtue  into  rigidity; 
and  thus  I  say  that  humour  is  a  kind  of  divine 


94  At  Large 

and  crowning  grace  in  a  character,  because  it 
means  an  artistic  sense  of  proportion,  a  true 
and  vital  tolerance,  a  power  of  infinite 
forgiveness. 


y 

Travel 

THERE  are  many  motives  that  impel  us 
to  travel,  to  change  our  sky,  as  Horace 
calls  it — good  motives  and  bad,  selfish  and  un- 
selfish, noble  and  ignoble.  With  some  people 
it  is  pure  restlessness;  the  tedium  of  ordinary 
life  weighs  on  them,  and  travel,  they  think, 
will  distract  them;  people  travel  for  the  sake 
of  health,  or  for  business  reasons,  or  to  accom- 
pany some  one  else,  or  because  other  people 
travel.  And  these  motives  are  neither  good 
nor  bad,  they  are  simply  sufficient.  Some  peo- 
ple travel  to  enlarge  their  minds  or  to  write 
a  book;  and  the  worst  of  travelling  for  such 
reasons  is  that  it  so  often  implants  in  the 
traveller,  when  he  returns,  a  desperate  desire 
to  enlarge  other  people's  minds  too.  Unhappily, 
it  needs  an  extraordinary  gift  of  vivid  de- 
scription and  a  tactful  art  of  selection  to  make 
95 


96  At  Large 

the  reflections  of  one's  travels  interesting  to 
other  people.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  for 
biographers  that  there  are  abundance  of  peo- 
ple who  are  stirred,  partly  by  unwonted  lei- 
sure and  partly  by  awakened  interest,  to  keep 
a  diary  only  when  they  are  abroad.  These 
extracts  from  diaries  of  foreign  travel,  which 
generally  pour  their  muddy  stream  into  a  bio- 
graphy on  the  threshold  of  the  hero's  manhood, 
are  things  to  be  resolutely  skipped.  What  one 
desires  in  a  biography  is  to  see  the  ordinary 
texture  of  a  man's  life,  an  account  of  his 
working  days,  his  normal  hours;  and  to  most 
people  the  normal  current  of  their  lives  ap- 
pears so  commonplace  and  uninteresting  that 
they  keep  no  record  of  it,  while  they  often 
keep  an  elaborate  record  of  their  impressions 
of  foreign  travel,  which  are  generally  super- 
ficial and  picturesque,  and  remarkably  like  the 
impressions  of  all  other  intelligent  people.  A 
friend  of  mine  returned  the  other  day  from 
an  American  tour,  and  told  me  that  he  re- 
ceived a  severe  rebuke,  out  of  the  mouth  of  a 
babe,  which  cured  him  of  expatiating  on  his 
experiences.  He  lunched  with  his  brother 
soon  after  his  return,  and  was  holding  forth 


Travel  97 

with  a  consciousness  of  brilliant  descriptive 
emphasis,  when  his  eldest  nephew,  aged  eight, 
towards  the  end  of  the  meal,  laid  down  his 
spoon  and  fork,  and  said  piteously  to  his 
mother,  "  Mummy,  I  must  talk ;  it  does  make 
me  so  tired  to  hear  Uncle  going  on  like  that." 
A  still  more  effective  rebuke  was  administered 
by  a  clever  lady  of  my  acquaintance  to  a 
cousin  of  hers,  a  young  lady  who  had  just  re- 
turned from  India,  and  was  very  full  of  her 
experiences.  The  cousin  had  devoted  herself 
during  breakfast  to  giving  a  lively  description 
of  social  life  in  India,  and  was  preparing  to 
spend  the  morning  in  continuing  her  lecture, 
when  the  elder  lady  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
and  returned  with  some  sermon-paper,  a  blot- 
ting-book,  and  a  pen.  "  Maud,"  she  said, 
"  this  is  too  good  to  be  lost :  you  must  write 
it  all  down,  every  word!"  The  projected 
manuscript  did  not  come  to  very  much,  but 
the  lesson  was  not  thrown  away. 

Perhaps,  for  most  people,  the  best  results 
of  travel  are  that  they  return  with  a  sense  of 
grateful  security  to  the  familiar  scene:  the 
monotonous  current  of  life  has  been  enlivened, 
the  old  relationships  have  gained  a  new  value, 


98  At  Large 

the  old  gossip  is  taken  up  with  a  comfortable 
zest;  the  old  rooms  are  the  best,  after  all,  the 
homely  language  is  better  than  the  outlandish 
tongue;  it  is  a  comfort  to  have  done  with 
squeezing  the  sponge  and  cramming  the  trunk : 
it  is  good  to  be  at  home. 

But  to  people  of  more  cultivated  and  intel- 
lectual tastes  there  is  an  abundance  of  good 
reasons  for  the  pursuit  of  impressions.  It  is 
worth  a  little  fatigue  to  see  the  spring  sun 
lie  softly  upon  the  unfamiliar  foliage,  to  see 
the  delicate  tints  of  the  purple-flowered  Judas- 
tree,  the  bright  colours  of  Southern  houses, 
the  old  high-shouldered  chMeau  blinking 
among  its  wooded  parterres;  it  is  pleasant  to 
see  mysterious  rites  conducted  at  tabernacled 
altars,  under  dark  arches,  and  to  smell  the 
"  thick,  strong,  stupefying  incense-smoke  " ;  to 
see  well-known  pictures  in  their  native  setting, 
to  hear  the  warm  waves  of  the  canal  lapping 
on  palace-stairs,  with  the  exquisite  moulded 
cornice  overhead.  It  gives  one  a  strange 
thrill  to  stand  in  places  rich  with  dim  asso- 
ciations, to  stand  by  the  tombs  of  heroes  and 
saints,  to  see  the  scenes  made  familiar  by  art 
OP  history,  the  homes  of  famous  men.      Such 


Travel  99 

travel  is  full  of  weariness  and  disappointment. 
The  place  one  had  desired  half  a  lifetime  to 
behold  turns  out  to  be  much  like  other  places, 
devoid  of  inspiration.  A  tiresome  companion 
casts  dreariness  as  from  an  inky  cloud  upon 
the  mind.  Do  I  not  remember  visiting  the 
Palatine  with  a  friend  bursting  with  archaeo- 
logical information,  who  led  us  from  room  to 
room,  and  identified  all  by  means  of  a  folding 
plan,  to  find  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
begun  at  the  wrong  end,  and  that  even  the  cen- 
tral room  was  not  identified  correctly,  because 
the  number  of  rooms  was  even,  and  not  odd? 
But,  for  all  that,  there  come  blessed  un- 
utterable moments,  when  the  mood  and  the 
scene  and  the  companion  are  all  attuned  in  a 
soft  harmony.  Such  moments  come  back  to 
me  as  I  write.  I  see  the  mouldering  brick- 
work of  a  crumbling  tomb  all  overgrown  with 
grasses  and  snapdragons,  far  out  in  the  Cam- 
pagna;  or  feel  the  plunge  of  the  boat  through 
the  reed-beds  of  the  Anapo,  as  we  slid  into  the 
silent  pool  of  blue  water  in  the  heart  of  the 
marsh,  where  the  sand  danced  at  the  bottom^ 
and  the  springs  bubbled  up,  while  a  great  bit- 
tern flew  booming  away  from  a  reedy  pool  hard 


loo  At  Large 

by.  Such  things  are  worth  paying  a  heavy 
price  for,  because  they  bring  a  sort  of  aerial 
distance  into  the  mind,  they  touch  the  spirit 
with  a  hope  that  the  desire  for  beauty  and 
perfection  is  not,  after  all,  wholly  unrealis- 
able,  but  that  there  is  a  sort  of  treasure  to  be 
found  even  upon  earth,  if  one  diligently  goes 
in  search  of  it. 

Of  one  thing,  however,  I  am  quite  certain, 
and  that  is  that  travel  should  not  be  a  fever- 
ish garnering  of  impressions,  but  a  delicious 
and  leisurely  plunge  into  a  different  atmos- 
phere. It  is  better  to  visit  few  places,  and  to 
become  at  home  in  each,  than  to  race  from 
place  to  place,  guide-book  in  hand.  A  beau- 
tiful scene  does  not  yield  up  its  secrets  to  the 
eye  of  the  collector.  What  one  wants  is  not 
definite  impressions  but  indefinite  influences. 
It  is  of  little  use  to  enter  a  church,  unless  one 
tries  to  worship  there,  because  the  essence  of 
the  place  is  worship,  and  only  through  worship 
can  the  secret  of  the  shrine  be  apprehended. 
It  is  of  little  use  to  survey  a  landscape, 
unless  one  has  an  overpowering  desire  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  one's  days  there; 
because  it  is  the  life  of  the  place,  and  not  the 


Travel  loi 

sight  of  it,  in  which  one  desires  to  have  a 
part.  Above  all,  one  must  not  let  one's  memo- 
ries sleep  as  in  a  dusty  lumber-room  of  the 
mind.  In  a  quiet  firelit  hour  one  must  draw 
near  and  scrutinise  them  afresh,  and  ask  one- 
self what  remains.  As  I  write,  I  open  the  door 
of  my  treasury  and  look  round.  What  comes 
up  before  me?  I  see  an  opalescent  sky,  and 
the  great  soft  blue  rollers  of  a  sapphire  sea. 
I  am  journeying,  it  seems,  in  no  mortal  boat, 
though  it  was  a  commonplace  vessel  enough 
at  the  time,  twenty  years  ago,  and  singularly 
destitute  of  bodily  provision.  What  is  that 
over  the  sea's  rim,  where  the  tremulous,  shift- 
ing, blue  line  of  billows  shimmers  and  fluctu- 
ates? A  long,  low  promontory,  and  in  the 
centre,  over  white  clustered  houses  and  masts 
of  shipping,  rises  a  white  dome  like  the  shrine 
of  some  celestial  city.  That  is  Cadiz  for  me. 
I  dare  say  the  picture  is  all  wrong,  and  I  shall 
be  told  that  Cadiz  has  a  tower  and  is  full 
of  factory-chimneys;  but  for  me  the  dome, 
ghostly  white,  rises  as  though  moulded  out  of 
a  single  pearl,  upon  the  shifting  edges  of  the 
haze.  Whatever  I  have  seen  in  my  life,  that 
at  least  is  immortal. 


I02  At  Large 

Or  again  the  scene  shifts,  and  now  I  stumble 
to  the  deck  of  another  little  steamer,  very  in- 
sufficiently habited  in  the  sharp  freshness  of 
the  dawn  of  a  spring  morning.  The  waves  are 
different  here — not  the  great  steely,  league- 
long  rollers  of  the  Atlantic,  but  the  sharp 
azure  waves,  marching  in  rhythmic  order,  of 
the  Mediterranean;  what  is  the  land,  with 
grassy  downs  and  folded  valleys  falling  to 
grey  cliffs,  upon  which  the  brisk  waves  whiten 
and  leap?  That  is  Sicily;  and  the  thought 
of  Theocritus,  with  the  shepherd-boy  singing 
light-heartedly  upon  the  headland  a  song  of 
sweet  days  and  little  eager  joys,  comes  into 
my  heart  like  wine,  and  brings  a  sharp  touch 
of  tears  into  the  eyes.  Theocritus!  How  little 
I  thought,  as  I  read  the  ugly  brown  volume 
with  its  yellow  paper,  in  the  dusty  school- 
room at  Eton  ten  years  before,  that  it  was  go- 
ing to  mean  that  to  me,  sweetly  as  even  then,  in 
a  moment  torn  from  the  noisy  tide  of  schoolboy 
life,  came  the  pretty  echoes  of  the  song  into 
a  little  fanciful  and  restless  mind!  But  now, 
as  I  see  those  deserted  limestone  crags,  that 
endless  sheep-wold,  with  no  sign  of  a  habita- 
tion, rising  and  falling  far  into  the  distance, 


Travel  103 

with  the  fresh  sea-breeze  upon  my  cheek — there 
comes  upon  me  that  tender  sorrow  for  all  the 
beautiful  days  that  are  dead,  the  days  when 
the  shepherds  walked  together,  exulting  in 
youth  and  warmth  and  good-fellowship  and 
Bong,  to  the  village  festival,  and  met  the  wan- 
dering minstrel,  with  his  coat  of  skin  and  his 
kind,  ironical  smile,  who  gave  them,  after  their 
halting  lays,  a  touch  of  the  old  true  melody 
from  a  master's  hand.  What  do  all  those  old 
and  sweet  dreams  mean  for  me,  the  sunlight 
that  breaks  on  the  stream  of  human  souls, 
flowing  all  together,  alike  through  dark  rocks 
where  the  water  chafes  and  thunders,  and 
spreading  out  into  tranquil  shining  reaches, 
where  the  herons  stand  half -asleep?  What 
does  that  strange  drift  of  kindred  spirits, 
moving  from  the  unknown  to  the  unknown, 
mean  for  me?  I  only  know  that  it  brings 
into  my  mind  a  strange  yearning,  and  a  de- 
sire of  almost  unearthly  sweetness  for  all  that 
is  delicate  and  beautiful  and  full  of  charm, 
together  with  a  sombre  pity  for  the  falling 
mist  of  tears,  the  hard  discipline  of  the  world, 
the  cries  of  anguish,  as  life  lapses  from  the 
steep  into  the  silent  tide  of  death. 


I04  At  Large 

Or,  again,  I  seem  once  more  to  sit  in  the 
balcony  of  a  house  that  looks  out  toward 
Yesuvius.  It  is  late;  the  sky  is  clouded,  the 
air  is  still;  a  grateful  coolness  comes  up  from 
acre  after  acre  of  gardens  climbing  the  steep 
slope;  a  fluttering  breeze,  that  seems  to  have 
lost  his  way  in  the  dusk,  comes  timidly  and 
whimsically  past,  like  Ariel,  singing  as  soft 
as  a  far-off  falling  sea  in  the  great  pine  over- 
head, making  a  little  sudden  flutter  in  the 
dry  leaves  of  the  thick  creeper;  like  Ariel 
comes  that  dainty  spirit  of  the  air,  laden  with 
balmy  scents  and  cool  dew.  A  few  lights 
twinkle  in  the  plain  below.  Opposite  the  sky 
has  an  added  blackness,  an  impenetrability  of 
shade ;  but  what  is  the  strange  red  eye  of  light 
that  hangs  between  earth  and  heaven?  And, 
stranger  still,  what  is  that  phantasmal  gleam 
of  a  lip  of  crags  high  in  the  air,  and  that  mys- 
terious, moving,  shifting  light,  like  a  pale 
flame,  above  it?  The  gloomy  spot  is  a  rent 
in  the  side  of  Vesuvius  where  the  smouldering 
heat  has  burnt  through  the  crust,  and  where 
a  day  or  two  before  I  saw  a  viscid  stream  of 
molten  liquor,  with  the  flames  playing  over 
it,   creeping,   creeping   through   the   tunnelled 


Travel  105 

ashes;  and  in  the  light  above  is  the  lip  of  Ve- 
suvius itself,  with  its  restless  furnace  at  work, 
casting  up  a  billowy  swell  of  white  oily  smoke, 
while  the  glare  of  the  fiery  pit  lights  up  the 
under-side  of  the  rising  vapours.  A  ghastly 
manifestation,  that,  of  sleepless  and  stern 
forces,  ever  at  work  upon  some  eternal  and  be- 
wildering task;  and  yet  so  strangely  made  am 
I,  that  these  fierce  signal-fires,  seen  afar,  but 
blend  with  the  scents  of  the  musky  alleys  for 
me  into  a  thrill  of  unutterable  wonder. 

There  are  hundreds  of  such  pictures  stored 
in  my  mind,  each  stamped  upon  some  sensitive 
particle  of  the  brain,  that  cannot  be  obliter- 
ated, and  each  of  which  the  mind  can  recall 
at  will.  And  that,  too,  is  a  fact  of  surpass- 
ing wonder:  what  is  the  delicate  instrument 
that  registers,  with  no  seeming  volition,  these 
amazing  pictures,  and  preserves  them  thus 
with  so  fantastic  a  care,  retouching  them, 
fashioning  them  anew,  detaching  from  the 
picture  every  sordid  detail,  till  each  is  as  a 
lyric,  inexpressible,  exquisite,  too  fine  for 
words  to  touch? 

Now  it  is  useless  to  dictate  to  others  the 
aims  and  methods  of  travel:  each  must  follow 


io6  At  Large 

his  own  taste.  To  myself  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge  and  information  is  in  these  mat- 
ters an  entirely  negligible  thing.  To  me  the 
one  and  supreme  object  is  the  gathering  of  a 
gallery  of  pictures;  and  yet  that  is  not  a 
definite  object  either,  for  the  whimsical  and 
stubborn  spirit  refuses  to  be  bound  by  any 
regulations  in  the  matter.  It  will  garner  up 
[With  the  most  poignant  care  a  single  vignette, 
a  tiny  detail.  I  see,  as  I  write,  the  vision  of 
a  great  golden-grey  carp  swimming  lazily  in 
the  clear  pool  of  Arethusa,  the  carpet  of 
mesembryanthemum  that,  for  some  fancy  of 
its  own,  chose  to  involve  the  whole  of  a  rail- 
way viaduct  with  its  flaunting  magenta  flow- 
ers and  its  fleshy  leaves.  I  see  the  edge  of  the 
sea,  near  Syracuse,  rimmed  with  a  line  of  the 
intensest  yellow,  and  I  hear  the  voice  of  a 
guide  explaining  that  it  was  caused  by  the 
breaking  up  of  a  stranded  orange-boat,  so  that 
the  waves  for  many  hundred  yards  threw  up 
on  the  beach  a  wrack  of  fruit;  yet  the  same 
wilful  and  perverse  mind  will  stand  impene- 
trably dumb  and  blind  before  the  noblest 
and  sweetest  prospect,  and  decline  to 
receive  any  impression  at  all.     What  is  per- 


Travel  107 

haps  the  oddest  characteristic  of  the  tricksy 
spirit  is  that  it  often  chooses  moments  of  in- 
tense discomfort  and  fatigue  to  master  some 
scene,  and  take  its  indelible  picture.  I  sup- 
pose that  the  reason  of  this  is  that  the  mind 
makes,  at  such  moments,  a  vigorous  effort  to 
protest  against  the  tyranny  of  the  vile  body, 
and  to  distract  itself  from  instant  cares. 

But  another  man  may  travel  for  archaeo- 
logical or  even  statistical  reasons.  He  may 
wish,  like  Ulysses,  to  study  "  manners,  coun- 
cils, customs,  governments."  He  may  be  pre- 
occupied with  questions  of  architectural  style 
or  periods  of  sculpture.  I  have  a  friend  who 
takes  up  at  intervals  the  study  of  the  pictures 
of  a  particular  master,  and  will  take  endless 
trouble  and  undergo  incredible  discomfort  in 
order  to  see  the  vilest  daubs,  if  only  he  can 
make  his  list  complete,  and  say  that  he  has 
seen  all  the  reputed  works  of  the  master. 
This  instinct  is,  I  believe,  nothing  but  the  sur- 
vival of  the  childish  instinct  for  collecting, 
and,  though  I  can  reluctantly  admire  any  man 
who  spares  no  trouble  to  gain  an  end,  the  mo- 
tive is  dark  and  unintelligible  to  me. 

There  are  some  travellers,  like  Dean  Stan- 


io8  At  Large 


ley,  who  drift  from  the  appreciation  of  natnral 
scenery  into  the  pursuit  of  historical  associa- 
tions. The  story  of  Stanley  as  a  boy,  when 
he  had  his  first  sight  of  the  snowy  Alps  on 
the  horizon,  always  delights  me.  He  danced 
about  saying,  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall 
I  do?"  But  in  later  days  Stanley  would  not 
go  a  mile  to  see  a  view,  while  he  would  travel 
all  night  to  see  a  few  stones  of  a  ruin,  jutting 
out  of  a  farmyard  wall,  if  only  there  was  some 
human  and  historical  tradition  connected 
with  the  place.  I  do  not  myself  understand 
that  I  should  not  wish  to  see  Etna  merely 
because  Empedocles  is  supposed  to  have 
jumped  down  the  crater,  nor  the  site  of  Jeri- 
cho because  the  walls  fell  down  at  the 
trumpets  of  the  host.  The  only  interest  to 
me  in  an  historical  scene  is  that  it  should  be 
in  such  a  condition  as  that  one  can  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  reconstruct  the  original  drama, 
and  be  sure  that  one's  eyes  rest  upon  very 
much  the  same  scene  as  the  actors  saw.  The 
reason  why  Syracuse  moved  me  by  its  ac- 
quired beauty,  and  not  for  its  historical  asso- 
ciations, was  because  I  felt  convinced  that 
Thucydides,  who   gives   so  picturesque  a   de- 


Travel  109 

scription  of  the  sea-fight,  can  never  have  set 
eyes  on  the  place,  and  must  have  embroidered 
his  account  from  scanty  hearsay.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  are  few  things  in  the  world 
more  profoundly  moving  than  to  see  a  place 
where  great  thoughts  have  been  conceived  and 
great  books  written,  when  one  is  able  to  feel 
that  the  scene  is  hardly  changed.  The  other 
day,  as  I  passed  before  the  sacred  gate  of 
Bydal  Mount,  I  took  my  hat  off  my  head  with 
a  sense  of  indescribable  reverence.  My  com- 
panion asked  me  laughingly  why  I  did  so. 
"Why?"  I  said;  "from  natural  piety  of 
course!  I  know  every  detail  here  as  well  as 
if  I  had  lived  here,  and  I  have  walked  in 
thought  a  hundred  times  with  the  poet,  to  and 
fro  in  the  laurelled  walks  of  the  garden,  up 
the  green  shoulder  of  Nab  Scar,  and  sat  in  the 
little  parlour,  while  the  fire  leapt  on  the 
hearth,  and  heard  him  '  booing '  his  verses, 
to  be  copied  by  some  friendly  hand." 

I  thrill  to  see  the  stately  rooms  of  Abbots- 
ford,  with  all  their  sham  feudal  decorations, 
the  little  staircase  by  which  Scott  stole  away 
to  his  solitary  work,  the  folded  clothes,  the 
shapeless  hat,  the  ugly  shoes,  laid  away  in  the 


no  At  Large 

glass  case;  the  plantations  where  he  walked 
with  his  shrewd  bailiff,  the  place  where  he 
stopped  so  often  on  the  shoulder  of  the  slope, 
to  look  at  the  Eildon  Hills,  the  rooms  where 
he  sat,  a  broken  and  bereaved  man,  yet  with  so 
gallant  a  spirit,  to  wrestle  with  sorrow  and 
adversity.  I  wept,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say, 
at  Abbotsford,  at  the  sight  of  the  stately 
Tweed  rolling  his  silvery  flood  past  lawns  and 
shrubberies,  to  think  of  that  kindly,  brave,  and 
honourable  heart,  and  his  passionate  love  of 
all  the  goodly  and  cheerful  joys  of  life  and 
earth. 

Or,  again,  it  was  a  solemn  day  for  me  to 
pass  from  the  humble  tenement  where  Cole- 
ridge lived,  at  Nether  Stowey,  before  the  cloud 
of  sad  habit  had  darkened  his  horizon,  and 
turned  him  away  from  the  wells  of  poetry 
into  the  deserts  of  metaphysical  specula- 
tion, to  find,  if  he  could,  some  medicine  for 
his  tortured  spirit.  I  walked  with  a  holy  awe 
along  the  leafy  lanes  to  Alfoxden,  where  the 
beautiful  house  nestles  in  the  green  combe 
among  its  oaks,  thinking  how  here,  and  here, 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  had  walked  to- 
gether in  the  glad  days  of  youth,  and  planned, 


Travel  1 1 1 

in  obscurity  and  secluded  joy,  the  fresh  and 
lovely  lyrics  of  their  matin-prime. 

I  turn,  I  confess,  more  eagerly  to  scenes  like 
these  than  to  scenes  of  historical  and  political 
tradition,  because  there  hangs  for  me  a  glory 
about  the  scene  of  the  conception  and  genesis 
of  beautiful  imaginative  work  that  is  unlike 
any  glory  that  the  earth  holds.  The  natural 
joy  of  the  youthful  spirit  receiving  the  im- 
pact of  mighty  thoughts,  of  poignant  impres- 
sions, has  for  me  a  liberty  and  a  grace  which 
no  historical  or  political  associations  could 
ever  possess.  I  could  not  glow  to  see  the  room 
in  which  a  statesman  worked  out  the  details 
of  a  bill  for  the  extension  of  the  franchise,  or 
a  modification  of  the  duties  upon  imports  and 
exports,  though  I  respect  the  growing  powers 
of  democracy  and  the  extinction  of  privilege 
and  monopoly ;  but  these  measures  are  dimmed 
and  tainted  with  intrigue  and  manceuvre  and 
statecraft.  I  do  not  deny  their  importance, 
their  worth,  their  nobleness.  But  not  by 
committees  and  legislation  does  humanity 
triumph.  In  the  vanguard  go  the  blessed  ad- 
venturous spirits  that  quicken  the  moral  tem- 
perature, and  uplift  the  banner  of  simplicity 


112  At  Large 

and  sincerity.  The  host  marches  heavily  be- 
hind, and  the  commissariat  rolls  grumbling  in 
the  rear  of  all;  and  though  my  place  may  be 
with  the  workaday  herd,  I  will  send  my 
fancy  afar  among  the  leafy  valleys  and  the 
far-off  hills  of  hope. 

But  I  would  not  here  quarrel  with  the  taste 
of  any  man.  If  a  mortal  chooses  to  travel  in 
search  of  comfortable  rooms,  new  cookery  and 
wines,  the  livelier  gossip  of  unknown  people, 
in  heaven's  name  let  him  do  so.  If  another 
wishes  to  study  economic  conditions,  stand- 
ards of  life,  rates  of  wages,  he  has  my  gracious 
leave  for  his  pilgrimage.  If  another  desires 
to  amass  historical  and  archaeological  facts, 
measurements  of  hypaethral  temples,  modes  of 
burial,  folk-lore,  fortification,  God  forbid  that 
I  should  throw  cold  water  on  the  quest.  But 
the  only  traveller  whom  I  recognise  as  a 
kindred  spirit  is  the  man  who  goes  in  search 
of  impressions  and  effects,  of  tone  and  at- 
mosphere, of  rare  and  curious  beauty,  of  up- 
lifting association.  Nothing  that  has  ever 
moved  the  interest,  or  the  anxiety,  or  the  care, 
or  the  wonder,  of  human  beings  can  ever 
whollv  lose  its  charm.    I  have  felt  my  skin 


Travel  113 

prickle  and  creep  at  the  sight  of  that  amazing 
thing  in  the  Dublin  museum,  a  section  dug 
bodily  out  of  a  claypit,  and  showing  the  rough- 
hewn  stones  of  a  cist,  deep  in  the  earth,  the 
gravel  over  it  and  around  it,  the  roots  of  the 
withered  grass  forming  a  crust  many  feet 
above,  and  inside  the  cist  the  rude  urn,  re- 
versed over  a  heap  of  charred  ashes;  it  was 
not  the  curiosity  of  the  sight  that  moved  me, 
but  the  thought  of  the  old  dark  life  revealed, 
the  dim  and  savage  world,  that  was  yet  shot 
through  and  pierced,  even  as  now,  with  sor- 
row for  death,  and  care  for  the  beloved  ashes 
of  a  friend  and  chieftain.  Such  a  sight  sets 
a  viewless  net-work  of  emotion,  which  seems 
to  interlace  far  back  into  the  ages,  all  pulsat- 
ing and  stirring.  One  sees  in  a  flash  that  hu- 
manity lived,  carelessly  and  brutally  perhaps, 
as  we  too  live,  and  were  confronted,  as  we 
are  confronted,  with  the  horror  of  the  gap, 
the  intolerable  mystery  of  life  lapsing  into 
the  dark.  Ah,  the  relentless  record,  the  im- 
penetrable mystery!  I  care  very  little,  I  fear, 
for  the  historical  development  of  funereal 
rites,  and  hardly  more  for  the  light  that  such 
things  throw   on   the  evolution  of  society.    I 

8 


114  At  Large 

leave  that  gratefully  enough  to  the  philoso- 
phers. What  I  care  for  is  the  touch  of  nature 
that  shows  me  my  ancient  brethren  of  the 
dim  past — who  would  have  mocked  and  ridi- 
culed me,  I  doubt  not,  if  I  had  fallen  into  their 
hands,  and  killed  me  as  carelessly  as  one 
throws  aside  the  rind  of  a  squeezed  fruit — 
yet  I  am  one  with  them,  and  perhaps  even 
something  of  their  blood  flows  in  my  veins 
yet. 

As  I  grow  older,  I  tend  to  travel  less  and 
less,  and  I  do  not  care  if  I  never  cross  the 
Channel  again.  Is  there  a  right  and  a  wrong 
in  the  matter,  an  advisability  or  an  inad- 
visability,  an  expediency  or  an  inexpediency? 
I  do  not  think  so.  Travelling  is  a  pleasure,  if 
it  is  anything,  and  a  pleasure  pursued  from  a 
sense  of  duty  is  a  very  fatuous  thing.  I  have 
no  good  reason  to  give,  only  an  accumulation 
of  small  reasons.  Dr.  Johnson  once  said  that 
any  number  of  insuflScient  reasons  did  not 
make  a  sufficient  one,  just  as  a  number  of  rab- 
bits did  not  make  a  horse.  A  lively  but 
misleading  illustration :  he  might  as  well  have 
said  that  any  number  of  sovereigns  did  not 
make  a  cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds.    I  sup- 


Travel  1 1 5 

pose  that  I  do  not  like  the  trouble  to  start 
with ;  and  then  I  do  not  like  being  adrift  from 
my  own  beloved  country.  Then  I  cannot  con- 
verse in  any  foreign  language,  and  half  the 
pleasure  of  travelling  comes  from  being  able 
to  lay  oneself  alongside  of  a  new  point  of 
view.  Then,  too,  I  realise,  as  I  grow  older, 
how  little  I  have  really  seen  of  my  own  in- 
comparably beautiful  and  delightful  land,  so 
that,  like  the  hero  of  Newman's  hymn, 

I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

And,  lastly,  I  have  a  reason  which  will  per- 
haps seem  a  far-fetched  one.  Travel  is  essen- 
tially a  distraction,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be 
distracted  any  more.  One  of  the  mistakes  that 
people  make,  in  these  Western  latitudes,  is  to 
be  possessed  by  an  inordinate  desire  to  drown 
thought.  The  aim  of  many  men  whom  I  know 
seems  to  me  to  be  occupied  in  some  absolutely 
definite  way,  so  that  they  may  be  as  far  as 
possible  unaware  of  their  own  existence. 
Anything  to  avoid  reflection!  A  normal  Eng- 
lishman  does  not  care  very   much   what  the 


ii6  At  Large 

work  and  value  of  his  occupation  is,  as  long  as 
he  is  occupied;  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that 
we  came  into  the  world  to  be  occupied.  Christ, 
in  the  Gospel  story,  rebuked  the  busy  Martha 
for  her  bustling  anxieties,  her  elaborate  atten- 
tions to  her  guests,  and  praised  the  leisurely 
Mary  for  desiring  to  sit  and  hear  Him  talk. 
Socrates  spent  his  life  in  conversation.  I  do 
not  say  that  contemplation  is  a  duty,  but  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  we  are  not  forbid- 
den to  scrutinise  life,  to  wonder  what  it  is  all 
about,  to  study  its  problems,  to  apprehend  its 
beauty  and  significance.  We  admire  a  man 
who  goes  on  making  money  long  after  he  has 
made  far  more  than  he  needs;  we  think  a  life 
honourably  spent  in  editing  Greek  books. 
Socrates  in  one  of  Plato's  dialogues  quotes 
the  opinion  of  a  philosopher  to  the  efifect  that 
when  a  man  has  made  enough  to  live  upon  he 
should  begin  to  practise  virtue.  "  I  think  he 
should  begin  even  earlier,"  says  the  inter- 
locutor; and  I  am  wholly  in  agreement  with 
him.  Travel  is  one  of  the  expedients  to  which 
busy  men  resort  in  order  that  they  may  forget 
their  existence.  I  do  not  venture  to  think  this 
exactly  culpable,  but  I  feel  sure  that  it  is  a 


Travel  117 

pity  that  people  do  not  do  less  and  think 
more.  If  a  man  asks  what  good  comes  from 
thinking,  I  can  only  retort  by  asking  what 
good  comes  from  the  multiplication  of  un- 
necessary activity.  I  am  quite  as  much  at  a 
loss  as  any  one  else  to  say  what  is  the  object 
of  life,  but  I  do  not  feel  any  doubt  that  we  are 
not  sent  into  the  world  to  be  in  a  fuss.  Like 
the  lobster  in  the  Water-BaMes,  I  cry,  "  Let 
me  alone ;  I  want  to  think ! "  because  I  believe 
that  that  occupation  is  at  least  as  profitable 
as  many  others. 

And  then,  too,  without  travelling  more  than 
a  few  miles  from  my  door,  I  can  see  things 
fully  as  enchanting  as  I  can  see  by  ranging 
Europe.  I  went  to-day  along  a  well-known 
road ;  just  where  the  descent  begins  to  fall  into 
a  quiet  valley  there  stands  a  windmill — not 
one  of  the  ugly  black  circular  towers  that  one 
sometimes  sees,  but  one  of  the  old  crazy 
boarded  sort,  standing  on  a  kind  of  stalk;  out 
of  the  little  loop-holes  of  the  mill  the  flour  had 
dusted  itself  prettily  over  the  weather -board- 
ing. From  a  mysterious  hatch  half-way  up 
leaned  the  miller,  drawing  up  a  sack  of  grain 
with  a  little  pulley.    There  is  nothing  so  en- 


ii8  At  Large 

chanting  as  to  see  a  man  leaning  out  of  a  dark 
doorway  high  up  in  the  air.  He  drew  the  sack 
in,  he  closed  the  panel.  The  sails  whirled, 
flapping  and  creaking,  and  I  loved  to  think 
of  him  in  the  dusty  gloom,  with  the  gear 
grumbling  among  the  rafters,  tipping  the 
golden  grain  into  its  funnel,  while  the  rattling 
hopper  below  poured  out  its  soft  stream  of 
flour.  Beyond  the  mill,  the  ground  sank  to 
a  valley;  the  roofs  clustered  round  a  great 
church  tower,  the  belfry  windows  blinking 
solemnly.  Hard  by  the  ancient  Hall  peeped 
out  from  its  avenue  of  elms.  That  was  a  pic- 
ture as  sweet  as  anything  I  have  ever  seen 
abroad,  as  perfect  a  piece  of  art  as  could  be 
framed,  and  more  perfect  than  anything  that 
could  be  painted,  because  it  was  a  piece  out 
of  the  old  kindly,  quiet  life  of  the  world.  One 
ought  to  learn,  as  the  years  flow  on,  to  love 
such  scenes  as  that,  and  not  to  need  to  have 
the  blood  and  the  brain  stirred  by  romantic 
prospects,  peaked  hills,  well-furnished  gal- 
leries, magnificent  buildings:  mutare  animum, 
that  is  the  secret,  to  grow  more  hopeful,  more 
alive  to  delicate  beauties,  more  tender,  less  ex- 
acting.   Nothing,  it  is  true,  can  give  us  peace ; 


Travel  119 

but  we  get  nearer  it  by  loving  the  familiar 
scene,  the  old  homestead,  the  tiny  valley,  the 
wayside  copse,  than  we  do  by  racing  over 
Europe  on  track  of  Giorgione,  or  over  Asia  in 
pursuit  of  local  colour.  After  all,  everything 
has  its  appointed  time.  It  is  good  to  range 
in  youth,  to  rub  elbows  with  humanity,  and 
then,  as  the  days  go  on,  to  take  stock,  to  re- 
member, to  wonder,  "  to  be  content  with  lit- 
tle, to  serve  beauty  well." 


yi 


Specialism 

IT  is  a  very  curious  thing  to  reflect  how  often 
an  old  platitude  or  axiom  retains  its  vi- 
tality, long  after  the  conditions  which  gave  it 
birth  have  altered,  and  it  no  longer  represents 
a  truth.  It  would  not  matter  if  such  plati- 
tudes only  lived  on  dustily  in  vapid  and  ill- 
furnished  minds,  like  the  vases  of  milky-green 
opaque  glass  decorated  with  golden  stars, 
that  were  the  joy  of  Early  Victorian  chimney- 
pieces,  and  now  hold  spills  in  the  second-best 
spare  bedroom.  But  like  the  psalmist's  ene- 
mies, platitudes  live  and  are  mighty.  They 
remain,  and,  alas!  they  have  the  force  of  argu- 
ments in  the  minds  of  sturdy  unreflective 
men,  who  describe  themselves  as  plain, 
straightforward  people,  and  whose  opinions 
carry  weight  in  a  community  whose  feelings 
are  swayed  by  the  statements   of  successful 


Specialism  121 

men  rather  than  by  the  conclusions  of  reason- 
able men. 

One  of  these  pernicious  platitudes  is  the 
statement  that  every  one  ought  to  know  some- 
thing about  everything  and  everything  about 
something.  It  has  a  speciously  epigrammatic 
air  about  it,  dazzling  enough  to  persuade  the 
common-sense  person  that  it  is  an  intellectual 
judgment. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  under  present  condi- 
tions, it  represents  an  impossible  and  even 
undesirable  ideal.  A  man  who  tried  to  know 
something  about  everything  would  end  in 
knowing  very  little  about  anything;  and  the 
most  exhaustive  programme  that  could  be  laid 
down  for  the  most  erudite  of  savants  nowa- 
days would  be  that  he  should  know  anything 
about  anything,  while  the  most  resolute  of 
specialists  must  be  content  with  knowing 
something  about  something. 

A  well-informed  friend  told  me,  the  other 
day,  the  name  and  date  of  a  man  who,  he 
said,  could  be  described  as  the  last  person  who 
knew  practically  everything  at  his  date  that 
was  worth  knowing.  I  have  forgotten  both 
the  name  and  the  date  and  the  friend  who  told 


122  At  Large 

me,  but  I  believe  that  the  learned  man  in  ques- 
tion was  a  cardinal  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
At  the  present  time,  the  problem  of  the  ac- 
cumulation of  knowledge  and  the  multiplica- 
tion of  books  is  a  very  serious  one  indeed.  It 
is,  however,  morbid  to  allow  it  to  trouble  the 
mind.  Like  all  insoluble  problems,  it  will  settle 
itself  in  a  way  so  obvious  that  the  people  who 
solve  it  will  wonder  that  any  one  could  ever 
have  doubted  what  the  solution  would  be,  just 
as  the  problem  of  the  depletion  of  the  world's 
stock  of  coal  will  no  doubt  be  solved  in  some 
perfectly  simple  fashion. 

The  dictum  in  question  is  generally  quoted 
as  an  educational  formula  in  favour  of  giving 
every  one  what  is  called  a  sound  general  edu- 
cation. And  it  is  probably  one  of  the  contribu- 
tory causes  which  account  for  the  present 
chaos  of  curricula.  All  subjects  are  held  to 
be  so  important,  and  each  subject  is  thought 
by  its  professors  to  be  so  peculiarly  adapted 
for  educational  stimulus,  that  a  resolute  selec- 
tion of  subjects,  which  is  the  only  remedy,  is 
not  attempted;  and  accordingly  the  victim 
of  educational  theories  is  in  the  predica- 
ment of  the  man  described  by  Dr.  Johnson 


specialism  iji3 

who  conld  not  make  up  his  mind  which  leg 
of  his  breeches  he  would  put  his  foot  into 
first.  Meanwhile,  said  the  Doctor,  with 
a  directness  of  speech  which  requires  to 
be  palliated,  the  process  of  investiture  is 
suspended. 

But  the  practical  result  of  the  dilemma  is 
the  rise  of  specialism.  The  savant  is  dead  and 
the  specialist  rules.  It  is  interesting  to  try  to 
trace  the  effect  of  this  revolution  upon  our 
national  culture. 

Now,  I  have  no  desire  whatever  to  take  up 
the  cudgels  against  the  specialists:  they  are  a 
harmless  and  necessary  race,  so  long  as  they 
are  aware  of  their  limitations.  But  the 
tyranny  of  an  oligarchy  is  the  worst  kind  of 
tyranny,  because  it  means  the  triumph  of  an 
average  over  individuals,  whereas  the  worst 
that  can  be  said  of  a  despotism  is  that  it  is 
the  triumph  of  an  individual  over  an  average. 
The  tyranny  of  the  specialistic  oligarchy  is 
making  itself  felt  to-day,  and  I  should  like  to 
fortify  the  revolutionary  spirit  of  liberty, 
whose  boast  it  is  to  detest  tyranny  in  all  its 
forms,  whether  it  is  the  tyranny  of  an  enlight- 
ened   despot,   or   the   tyranny    of    a   virtuous 


124  At  Large 


oligarchy,   or   the   tyranny   of   an    intelligent 
democracy. 

The  first  evil  which  results  from  the  rule 
of  the  specialist  is  the  destruction  of  the 
amateur.  So  real  a  fact  is  the  tyranny  of  the 
specialist  that  the  very  word  "  amateur," 
which  means  a  leisurely  lover  of  fine  things, 
is  beginning  to  be  distorted  into  meaning  an 
inefficient  performer.  As  an  instance  of  its 
correct  and  idiomatic  use  I  often  think  of  the 
delightful  landlord  whom  Stevenson  encoun- 
tered somewhere,  and  upon  whom  he  pressed 
some  Burgundy  which  he  had  with  him.  The 
generous  host  courteously  refused  a  second 
glass,  saying,  "  You  see  I  am  an  amateur  of 
these  things,  and  I  am  capable  of  leaving  you 
not  sufficient."  Now,  I  shall  concern  myself 
here  principally  with  literature,  because,  in 
England  at  all  events,  literature  plays  the 
largest  part  in  general  culture.  It  may  be 
said  that  we  owe  some  of  the  best  literature 
we  have  to  amateurs.  To  contrast  a  few 
names,  taken  at  random,  Shakespeare,  Dry- 
den,  Pope,  Dr.  Johnson,  De  Quincey,  Tenny- 
son, and  Carlyle  were  professionals,  it  is  true; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  Milton,  Gray,  Boswell, 


Specialism  125 

Walter  Scott,  Charles  Lamb,  Shelley,  Brown- 
ing, and  Ruskin  were  amateurs.  It  is  not  a 
question  of  how  much  a  man  writes  or  pub- 
lishes, it  is  a  question  of  the  spirit  in  which 
a  man  writes.  Walter  Scott  became  a  pro- 
fessional in  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and  for 
the  noblest  of  reasons;  but  he  also  became  a 
bad  writer.  A  good  pair  to  contrast  are 
Southey  and  Coleridge.  They  began  as  ama- 
teurs. Southey  became  a  professional  writer, 
and  his  sun  set  in  the  mists  of  valuable  in- 
formation. Coleridge,  as  an  amateur,  en- 
riched the  language  with  a  few  priceless 
poems,  and  then  got  involved  in  the  morass  of 
dialectical  metaphysics.  The  point  is  whether 
a  man  writes  simply  because  he  cannot  help 
it,  or  whether  he  writes  to  make  an  income. 
The  latter  motive  does  not  by  any  means  pre- 
vent his  doing  first-rate  artistic  work — indeed, 
there  are  certain  persons  who  seem  to  have  re- 
quired the  stimulus  of  necessity  to  make  them 
break  through  an  initial  indolence  of  nature. 
When  Johnson  found  fault  with  Gray  for 
having  times  of  the  year  when  he  wrote  more 
easily,  from  the  vernal  to  the  autumnal 
equinox,  he  added  that  a  man  could  write  at 


126  At  Large 

any  time  if  he  set  himself  doggedly  to  it. 
True,  no  doubt!  But  to  write  doggedly  is  not 
to  court  favourable  conditions  for  artistic 
work.  It  may  be  a  finer  sight  for  a  moralist 
to  see  a  man  performing  an  appointed  task 
heavily  and  faithfully,  with  grim  tenacity, 
than  it  is  to  see  an  artist  in  a  frenzy  of  de- 
light dashing  down  an  overpowering  impres- 
sion of  beauty ;  but  what  has  always  hampered 
the  British  appreciation  of  literature  is  that 
we  cannot  disentangle  the  moral  element  from 
it:  we  are  interested  in  morals,  not  in  art, 
and  we  require  a  dash  of  optimistic  piety  in 
all  writing  that  we  propose  to  enjoy. 

The  real  question  is  whether,  if  a  man  sets 
himself  doggedly  to  work,  the  appetite  comes 
with  eating,  and  whether  the  caged  bird  be- 
gins to  flutter  its  wings,  and  to  send  out  the 
song  that  it  learnt  in  the  green  heart  of  the 
wood.  When  Byron  said  that  easy  writing 
made  d — d  hard  reading,  he  meant  that  care- 
less conception  and  hasty  workmanship  tend 
to  blur  the  pattern  and  the  colour  of  work. 
The  fault  of  the  amateur  is  that  he  can  make 
the  coat,  but  cannot  be  bothered  to  make  it  fit. 
But  it  is  not  by  any  means  true  that  hard 


Specialism  127 

writing  makes  easy  reading.  The  spirit  of 
the  amateur  is  the  spirit  of  the  lover,  who 
trembles  at  the  thought  that  the  delicate  crea- 
ture he  loves  may  learn  to  love  him  in  return, 
if  he  can  but  praise  her  worthily.  The  pro- 
fessional spirit  is  the  spirit  in  which  a  man 
carefully  and  courteously  wooes '  an  elderly 
spinster  for  the  sake  of  her  comfortable  for- 
tune. The  amateur  has  an  irresponsible  joy 
in  his  work;  he  is  like  the  golfer  who  dreams 
of  mighty  drives,  and  practices  "  putting "  on 
his  back  lawn:  the  professional  writer  gives 
his  solid  hours  to  his  work  in  a  conscientious 
spirit,  and  is  glad  in  hours  of  freedom  to  put 
the  tiresome  business  away.  Yet  neither  the 
amateur  nor  the  professional  can  hope 
to  capture  the  spirit  of  art  by  joy  or  faith- 
fulness. It  is  a  kind  of  divine  felicity,  when 
all  is  said  and  done,  the  kindly  gift  of 
God. 

Now  into  this  free  wild  world  of  art  and 
literature  and  music  comes  the  specialist  and 
pegs  out  his  claim,  fencing  out  the  amateur, 
who  is  essentially  a  rambler,  from  a  hundred 
eligible  situations.  In  literature  this  is  par- 
ticularly the  case:  the  amateur  is  told  by  the 


128  At  Large 

historian  that  he  must  not  intrude  upon  his- 
tory; that  history  is  a  science,  and  not  a 
province  of  literature;  that  the  time  has  not 
come  to  draw  any  conclusions  or  to  summa- 
rise any  tendencies;  that  picturesque  narrative 
is  an  offence  against  the  spirit  of  Truth;  that 
no  one  is  as  black  or  as  white  as  he  is  painted ; 
and  that  to  trifle  with  history  is  to  commit  a 
sin  compounded  of  the  sins  of  Ananias  and 
Simon  Magus.  The  amateur  runs  ofif,  his 
hands  over  his  ears,  and  henceforth  hardly 
dares  even  to  read  history,  to  say  nothing  of 
writing  it.  Perhaps  I  draw  too  harsh  a  pic- 
ture, but  the  truth  is  that  I  did,  as  a  very 
young  man,  with  no  training  except  that  pro- 
vided by  a  sketchy  knowledge  of  the  classics, 
once  attempt  to  write  an  historical  biography. 
I  shudder  to  think  of  my  method  and  equip- 
ment; I  skipped  the  dull  parts,  I  left  all 
tiresome  documents  unread.  It  was  a  sad  far- 
rago of  enthusiasm  and  levity  and  heady  writ- 
ing. But  Jove's  thunder  rolled  and  the  bolt 
fell.  A  just  man,  whom  I  have  never  quite 
forgiven,  to  tell  the  truth,  told  me  with  un- 
necessary rigour  and  acrimony  that  I  had 
made  a  pitiable  exhibition  of  myself.     But  I 


Specialism  129 

have  thanked  God  ever  since,  for  I  turned  to 
literature  pure  and  simple. 

Then,  too,  it  is  the  same  with  art-criticism; 
here  the  amateur  again,  who,  poor  fool,  is  on 
the  look-out  for  what  is  beautiful,  is  told  that 
he  must  not  meddle  with  art  unless  he  does  it 
seriously,  which  means  that  he  must  devote 
himself  mainly  to  the  study  of  inferior  master- 
pieces, and  schools,  and  tendencies.  In  litera- 
ture it  is  the  same :  he  must  not  devote  himself 
to  reading  and  loving  great  books,  he  must 
disentangle  influences;  he  must  discern  the 
historical  importance  of  writers,  worthless  in 
themselves,  who  form  important  links.  In 
theology  and  in  philosophy  it  is  much  the 
same:  he  must  not  read  the  Bible  and  say 
what  he  feels  about  it;  he  must  unravel  Rab- 
binical and  Talmudic  tendencies;  he  must  ac- 
quaint himself  with  the  heretical  leanings  of 
a  certain  era,  and  the  shadow  cast  upon  the 
page  by  apocryphal  tradition.  In  philosophy 
he  is  still  worse  off,  because  he  must  plumb  the 
depths  of  metaphysical  jargon  and  master  the 
criticism  of  methods. 

Now,  this  is  in  a  degree  both  right  and  neces- 
sary, because  the  blind  must  not  attempt  to 
9 


130  At  Large 

lead  the  blind;  but  it  is  treating  the  whole 
thing  in  too  strictly  scientific  a  spirit  for  all 
that.  The  misery  of  it  is  that  the  work  of  the 
specialist  in  all  these  regions  tends  to  set  a 
hedge  about  the  law ;  it  tends  to  accumulate  and 
perpetuate  a  vast  amount  of  inferior  work. 
The  result  of  it  is  in  literature,  for  instance, 
that  an  immense  amount  of  second-rate  and 
third-rate  books  go  on  being  reprinted;  and 
instead  of  the  principle  of  selection  be- 
ing applied  to  great  authors,  and  their 
inferior  writings  being  allowed  to  lapse  into 
oblivion,  they  go  on  being  reissued,  not  be- 
cause they  have  any  direct  value  for  the  hu- 
man spirit,  but  because  they  have  a  scientific 
importance  from  the  point  of  view  of  develop- 
ment. Yet  for  the  ordinary  human  being  it  is 
far  more  important  that  he  should  read  great 
masterpieces  in  a  spirit  of  lively  and  enthusi- 
astic sympathy  than  that  he  should  wade  into 
them  through  a  mass  of  archaeological  and 
philological  detail.  As  a  boy  I  used  to  have 
to  prepare,  on  occasions,  a  play  of  Shakespeare 
for  a  holiday  task.  I  have  regarded  certain 
plays  with  a  kind  of  horror  ever  since,  because 
one  ended  by   learning  up  the  introduction. 


Specialism  131 

which  concerned  itself  with  the  origin  of  the 
play,  and  the  notes  which  illustrated  the  mean- 
ing of  such  words  as  "  kerns  and  gallow- 
glasses,"  and  left  the  action  and  the  poetry 
and  the  emotion  of  the  play  to  take  care  of 
themselves.  This  was  due  partly  to  the 
blighting  influence  of  examination-papers  set 
by  men  of  sterile,  conscientious  brains,  but 
partly  to  the  terrible  value  set  by  British 
minds  upon  correct  information.  The  truth 
really  is  that  if  one  begins  by  caring  for  a  work 
of  art,  one  also  cares  to  understand  the  me- 
dium through  which  it  is  conveyed;  but  if  one 
begins  by  studying  the  medium  first,  one  is 
apt  to  end  by  loathing  the  masterpiece,  be- 
cause of  the  dusty  apparatus  that  it  seems 
liable  to  collect  about  itself. 

The  result  of  the  influence  of  the  specialist 
upon  literature  is  that  the  amateur,  hustled 
from  any  region  where  the  historical  and  scien- 
tific method  can  be  applied,  turns  his  atten- 
tion to  the  field  of  pure  imagination,  where  he 
cannot  be  interfered  with.  And  this,  I  believe, 
i.s  one  of  the  reasons  why  belles  lettres  in  the 
more  precise  sense  tend  to  be  deserted  in  fa- 
vour of  fiction.     Sympathetic  and  imaginative 


132  At  Large 

criticism  is  so  apt  to  be  stamped  upon  by  the 
erudite,  who  cry  out  so  lamentably  over  errors 
and  minute  slips,  that  the  novel  seems  to  be 
the  only  safe  vantage-ground  in  which  the 
amateur  may  disport  himself. 

But  if  the  specialist  is  to  the  amateur  what 
the  hawk  is  to  the  dove,  let  us  go  further,  and 
in  a  spirit  of  love,  like  Mr.  Chadband,  inquire 
what  is  the  effect  of  specialism  on  the  mind  of 
the  specialist.  I  have  had  the  opportunity  of 
meeting  many  specialists,  and  I  say  unhesitat- 
ingly that  the  effect  largely  depends  upon  the 
natural  temperament  of  the  individual.  As  a 
general  rule,  the  great  si)ecialist  is  a  wise, 
kindly,  humble,  delightful  man.  He  perceives 
that  though  he  has  spent  his  whole  life  upon 
a  subject  or  a  fraction  of  a  subject,  he  knows 
hardly  anything  about  it  compared  to  what 
there  is  to  know.  The  track  of  knowledge 
glimmers  far  ahead  of  him,  rising  and  falling 
like  a  road  over  solitary  downs.  He  knows 
that  it  will  not  be  given  to  him  to  advance  very 
far  upon  the  path,  and  he  half  envies  those 
who  shall  come  after,  to  whom  many  things 
that  are  dark  mysteries  to  himself  will  be  clear 
and  plain.     But  he  sees,   too,  how  the   dim 


Specialism  133 

avenues  of  knowledge  reach  out  in  every  direc- 
tion, interlacing  and  combiningj  and  when  he 
contrasts  the  tiny  powers  of  the  most  subtle 
brain  with  all  the  wide  range  of  law — for  the 
knowledge  which  is  to  be,  not  invented,  but 
simply  discovered,  is  all  assuredly  there, 
secret  and  complex  as  it  seems — there  is  but 
little  room  for  complacency  or  pride.  In- 
deed, I  think  that  a  great  savant,  as  a  rule, 
feels  that  instead  of  being  separated  by  his 
store  of  knowledge,  as  by  a  wide  space  that  he 
has  crossed,  from  smaller  minds,  he  is  brought 
closer  to  the  ignorant  by  the  presence  of  the 
vast  unknown.  Instead  of  feeling  that  he  has 
soared  like  a  rocket  away  from  the  ground,  he 
thinks  of  himself  rather  as  a  flower  might  think 
whose  head  was  an  inch  or  two  higher  than  a 
great  company  of  similar  flowers;  he  has  per- 
haps a  wider  view;  he  sees  the  bounding 
hedgerow,  the  distant  line  of  hills,  whereas  the 
humbler  flower  sees  little  but  a  forest  of  stems 
and  blooms,  with  the  light  falling  dimly  be- 
tween. And  a  great  savant,  too,  is  far  more 
ready  to  credit  other  people  with  a  wider 
knowledge  than  they  possess.  It  is  the  lesser 
kind  of  savant,  the  man  of  one  book,  of  one 


134  At  Large 

province,  of  one  period,  who  is  inclined  to 
think  that  he  is  differentiated  from  the  crowd. 
The  great  man  is  far  too  much  preoccupied 
with  real  progress  to  waste  time  and  energy 
in  showing  up  the  mistakes  of  others.  It  is 
the  lesser  kind  of  savant,  jealous  of  his  own 
reputation,  anxious  to  show  his  superiority, 
who  loves  to  censure  and  deride  the  feebler 
brother.  If  one  ever  sees  a  relentless  and 
pitiless  review  of  a  book — an  exposure,  as  it  is 
called,  by  one  specialist  of  another's  work — 
one  may  be  fairly  certain  that  the  critic  is  a 
minute  kind  of  person.  Again,  the  great 
specialist  is  never  anxious  to  obtrude  his  sub- 
ject; he  is  rather  anxious  to  hear  what  is 
going  on  in  other  regions  of  mental  activity, 
regions  which  he  would  like  to  explore  but 
cannot.  It  is  the  lesser  light  that  desires  to 
dazzle  and  bewilder  his  company,  to  tyran- 
nise, to  show  off.  It  is  the  most  difficult  thing 
to  get  a  great  savant  to  talk  about  his  sub- 
ject, though,  if  he  is  kind  and  patient,  will  an- 
swer unintelligent  questions,  and  help  a  feeble 
mind  along,  it  is  one  of  the  most  delightful 
things  in  the  world,  I  seized  the  opportu- 
nity some  little  while  ago,  on  finding  myself 


Specialism  135 

sitting  next  to  a  great  physicist,  of  asking  him 
a  series  of  fumbling  questions  on  the  subject 
of  modern  theories  of  matter;  for  an  hour  I 
stumbled  like  a  child,  supported  by  a  strong 
hand,  in  a  dim  and  unfamiliar  world,  among 
the  mysterious  essences  of  things.  I  should 
like  to  try  to  reproduce  it  here,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  I  should  reproduce  it  all  wrong.  Still, 
it  was  deeply  inspiring  to  look  out  into  chaos, 
to  hear  the  rush  and  motion  of  atoms,  moving 
in  vast  vortices,  to  learn  that  inside  the  hard- 
est and  most  impenetrable  of  substances  there 
was  probably  a  feverish  intensity  of  inner 
motion.  I  do  not  know  that  I  acquired  any 
precise  knowledge,  but  I  drank  deep  draughts 
of  wonder  and  awe.  The  great  man,  with  his 
amused  and  weary  smile,  was  infinitely  gentle, 
and  left  me,  I  will  say,  far  more  conscious  of 
the  beauty  and  the  holiness  of  knowledge.  I 
said  something  to  him  about  the  sense  of 
power  that  such  knowledge  must  give.  "  Ah !  " 
he  said,  "  much  of  what  I  have  told  you  is  not 
proved,  it  is  only  suspected.  We  are  very 
much  in  the  dark  about  these  things  yet. 
Probably  if  a  physicist  of  a  hundred  years 
hence  could  overhear  me,  he  would  be  amazed 


136  At  Large 

to  think  that  a  sensible  man  could  make  such 
puerile  statements.  Power — no,  it  is  not  that ! 
It  rather  makes  one  realise  one's  feebleness  in 
being  so  uncertain  about  things  that  are  ab- 
solutely certain  and  precise  in  themselves,  if 
we  could  but  see  the  truth.  It  is  much  more 
like  the  apostle  who  said,  "Lord,  I  believe; 
help  Thou  my  unbelief."  The  thing  one  won- 
ders at  is  the  courage  of  the  men  who  dare  to 
think  they  know." 

In  one  region  I  own  that  I  dread  and  dis- 
like the  tyranny  of  the  specialist,  and  that  is 
the  region  of  metaphysical  and  religious  specu- 
lation. People  who  indulge  themselves  in 
this  form  of  speculation  are  apt  to  be  told  by 
theologians  and  metaphysicians  that  they 
ought  to  acquaint  themselves  with  the  trend 
of  theological  and  metaphysical  criticism.  It 
seems  to  me  like  telling  people  that  they  must 
not  ascend  mountains  unless  they  are  accom- 
panied by  guides,  and  have  studied  the  history 
of  previous  ascents.  "  Yes,"  the  professional 
says,  "  that  is  just  what  I  mean ;  it  is  mere 
foolhardiness  to  attempt  these  arduous  places 
unless  you  know  exactly  what  you  are  about." 

To  that  I  reply  that  no  one  is  bound  to  go 


Specialism  137 

up  hills,  but  that  every  one  who  reflects  at 
all  is  confronted  by  religious  and  philosophical 
problems.  We  all  have  to  live,  and  we  are  all 
more  or  less  experts  in  life.  When  one  con- 
siders the  infinite  importance  to  every  human 
spirit  of  these  problems,  and  when  one  further 
considers  how  very  little  theologians  and  phi- 
losophers have  ever  effected  in  the  direction 
of  enlightening  us  as  to  the  object  of  life,  the 
problem  of  pain  and  evil,  the  preservation  of 
identity  after  death,  the  question  of  necessity 
and  free-will,  surely,  to  attempt  to  silence  peo- 
ple on  these  matters  because  they  have  not 
had  a  technical  training  is  nothing  more  than 
an  attempt  wilfully  to  suppress  evidence  on 
these  points.  The  only  way  in  which  it  may 
be  possible  to  arrive  at  the  solution  of  these 
things  is  to  know  how  they  appeal  to  and 
affect  normal  minds.  I  would  rather  hear  the 
experience  of  a  life-long  sufferer  on  the  pro- 
blem of  pain,  or  of  a  faithful  lover  on  the  mys- 
tery of  love,  or  of  a  poet  on  the  influence  of 
natural  beauty,  or  of  an  unselfish  and  humble 
saint  on  the  question  of  faith  in  the  unseen, 
than  the  evidence  of  the  most  subtle  theologian 
or  metaphysician  in  the  world.     Many  of  us, 


138  At  Large 

if  we  are  specialists  in  nothing  else,  are  spe- 
cialists in  life;  we  have  arrived  at  a  point  of 
view;  some  particular  aspect  of  things  has 
come  home  to  us  with  a  special  force;  and 
what  really  enriches  the  hope  and  faith  of  the 
world  is  the  experience  of  candid  and  sincere 
persons.  The  specialist  has  often  had  no  time 
or  opportunity  to  observe  life;  all  he  has 
observed  is  the  thought  of  other  secluded  per- 
sons, persons  whose  view  has  been  both  nar- 
row and  conventional,  because  they  have  not 
had  the  opportunity  of  correcting  their  tradi- 
tional preconceptions  by  life  itself. 

I  call,  with  all  the  earnestness  that  I  can 
muster,  upon  all  intelligent,  observant,  specu- 
lative people,  who  have  felt  the  problems  of 
life  weigh  heavily  upon  them,  not  to  be  dis- 
mayed by  the  disapproval  of  technical  stu- 
dents, but  to  come  forward  and  tell  us  what 
conclusions  they  have  formed.  The  work  of 
the  trained  specialist  is  essentially,  in  religion 
and  philosophy,  a  negative  work.  He  can  show 
us  how  erroneous  beliefs,  which  coloured  the 
minds  of  men  at  certain  ages  and  eras,  grew 
up.  He  can  show  us  what  can  be  disregarded, 
as  being  only  the  conventional  belief  of  the 


Specialism  139 

time;  he  can  indicate,  for  instance,  how  a 
false  conception  of  supernatural  interference 
with  natural  law  grew  up  in  an  age  when,  for 
want  of  trained  knowledge,  facts  seemed 
fortuitous  occurrences  which  were  really  con- 
ditioned by  natural  laws.  The  poet  and  the 
idealist  make  and  cast  abroad  the  great  vital 
ideas,  which  the  specialist  picks  up  and 
analyses.  But  we  must  not  stop  at  analysis; 
we  want  positive  progress  as  well.  We  want 
people  to  tell  us,  candidly  and  simply,  how 
their  own  soul  grew,  how  it  cast  off  conven- 
tional beliefs,  how  it  justified  itself  in  being 
hopeful  or  the  reverse.  There  never  was  a  time 
when  more  freedom  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion was  conceded  to  the  individual.  A  man 
is  no  longer  socially  banned  for  being  heret- 
ical, schismatic,  or  liberal-minded.  I  want 
people  to  say  frankly  what  real  part  spiritual 
agencies  or  religious  ideas  have  played  in 
their  lives,  whether  such  agencies  and  ideas 
have  modified  their  conduct,  or  have  been 
modified  by  their  inclinations  and  habits.  I 
long  to  know  a  thousand  things  about  my  fel- 
low-men— how  they  bear  pain,  how  they  con- 
front  the   prospect   of   death,   the   hopes   by 


I40  At  Large 


which  they  live,  the  fears  that  overshadow 
them,  the  stuff  of  their  lives,  the  influence  of 
their  emotions.  It  has  long  been  thought, 
and  it  is  still  thought  by  many  narrow  pre- 
cisians, indelicate  and  egotistical  to  do  this. 
And  the  result  is  that  we  can  find  in  books 
all  the  things  that  do  not  matter,  while  the 
thoughts  that  are  of  deep  and  vital  interest 
are  withheld. 

Such  books  as  Montaigne's  Essays,  Rous- 
seau's Confessions,  Mrs.  Carlyle's  Letters, 
Mrs.  Oliphant's  Memoirs,  the  Autohiography 
of  B.  R.  Haydon,  to  name  but  a  few  books  that 
come  into  my  mind,  are  the  sort  of  books  that 
I  crave  for,  because  they  are  books  in  which 
one  sees  right  into  the  heart  and  soul  of  an- 
other. Men  can  confess  to  a  book  what  they 
cannot  confess  to  a  friend.  Why  should  it  be 
necessary  to  veil  this  essence  of  humanity  in 
the  dreary  melodrama,  the  trite  incident  of  a 
novel  or  a  play?  Things  in  life  do  not  hap- 
pen as  they  happen  in  novels  or  plays.  Oliver 
Twist,  in  real  life,  does  not  get  accidentally 
adopted  by  his  grandfather's  oldest  friend, 
and  commit  his  sole  burglary  in  the  house  of 
his  aunt.    We  do  not  want  life  to  be  trans- 


Specialism  141 

planted  into  trim  garden-plots;  we  want  to 
see  it  at  home,  as  it  grows  in  all  its  native 
wildness,  on  the  one  hand;  and  to  know  the 
idea,  the  theory,  the  principle  that  underlie 
it  on  the  other.  How  few  of  us  there  are  who 
make  our  lives  into  anything!  We  accept  our 
limitations,  we  drift  with  them,  while  we  in- 
dignantly assert  the  freedom  of  the  will.  The 
best  sermon  in  the  world  is  to  hear  of  one  who 
has  struggled  with  life,  bent  or  trained  it  to 
his  will,  plucked  or  rejected  its  fruit,  but  all 
upon  some  principle.  It  matters  little  what 
we  do;  it  matters  enormously  how  we  do  it. 
Considering  how  much  has  been  said,  and 
sung,  and  written,  and  recorded,  and  prated, 
and  imagined,  it  is  strange  to  think  how  little 
is  ever  told  us  directly  about  life;  we  see  it  in 
glimpses  and  flashes,  through  half-open  doors, 
or  as  one  sees  it  from  a  train  gliding  into  a 
great  town,  and  looks  into  back  windows  and 
yards  sheltered  from  the  street.  We  philoso- 
phise, most  of  us,  about  anything  but  life;  and 
one  of  the  reasons  why  published  sermons 
have  such  vast  sales  is  because,  however 
clumsily  and  conventionally,  it  is  with  life 
that  they  try  to  deal. 


142  At  Large 

This  kind  of  specialising  is  not  recognised 
as  a  technical  form  of  it  at  all,  and  yet  how 
far  nearer  and  closer  and  more  urgent  it  is 
for  us  than  any  other  kind.  I  have  a  hope 
that  we  are  at  the  beginning  of  an  era  of  plain- 
speaking  in  these  matters.  Too  often,  with 
the  literary  standard  of  decorum  which  pre- 
vails, such  self -revelations  are  brushed  aside 
as  morbid,  introspective,  egotistical.  They 
are  no  more  so  than  any  other  kind  of  inves- 
tigation, for  all  investigation  is  conditioned 
by  the  personality  of  the  investigator.  All 
that  is  needed  is  that  an  observer  of  life  should 
be  perfectly  candid  and  sincere,  that  he  should 
not  speak  in  a  spirit  of  vanity  or  self-glorifi- 
cation, that  he  should  try  to  disentangle  what 
are  the  real  motives  that  make  him  act  or 
refrain  from  acting. 

As  an  instance  of  what  I  mean  by  confes- 
sion of  the  frankest  order,  dealing  in  this  case 
not  only  with  literature  but  also  with  moral- 
ity, let  me  take  the  sorrowful  words  which 
Ruskin  wrote  in  his  Prwterita,  as  a  wearied 
and  saddened  man,  when  there  was  no  longer 
any  need  for  him  to  pretend  anything,  or  to 
involve  any  of  his  own  thoughts  or  beliefs  in 


Specialism  143 

any  sort  of  disguise.  He  took  up  Shakespeare 
at  Maeugnaga,  in  1840,  and  he  asks  why  the 
loveliest  of  Shakespeare's  plays  should  be  "  all 
mixed  and  encumbered  with  languid  and  com- 
mon work — to  one's  best  hope  spurious  cer- 
tainly, so  far  as  original,  idle  and  disgraceful 
— and  all  so  inextricably  and  mysteriously 
that  the  writer  himself  is  not  only  unknow- 
able, but  inconceivable;  and  his  wisdom  so 
useless,  that  at  this  time  of  being  and  speak- 
ing, among  active  and  purposeful  Englishmen, 
I  know  not  one  who  shows  a  trace  of  ever 
having  felt  a  passion  of  Shakespeare's,  or 
learnt  a  lesson  from  him." 

That  is  of  course  the  sad  cry  of  one  who  is 
interested  in  life  primarily,  and  in  art  only 
so  far  as  it  can  minister  to  life.  It  may  be 
strained  and  exaggerated,  but  how  far  more 
vital  a  saying  than  to  expand  in  voluble  and 
vapid  enthusiasm  over  the  insight  and  noble- 
ness of  Shakespeare,  if  one  has  not  really  felt 
one's  life  modified  by  that  mysterious  mind! 

Of  course  such  self-revelation  as  I  speak  of 
will  necessarily  fall  into  the  hands  of  unquiet, 
dissatisfied,  melancholy  people.  If  life  is  a 
commonplace   and   pleasant  sort  of  business, 


144  At  Large 

there  is  nothing  particular  to  say  or  to  think 
about  it.  But  for  all  those — and  they  are 
many — who  feel  that  life  misses,  by  some 
blind,  inevitable  movement,  being  the  gracious 
and  beautiful  thing  it  seems  framed  to  be, 
how  can  such  as  these  hold  their  peace?  And 
how,  except  by  facing  it  all,  and  looking  pa- 
tiently and  bravely  at  it,  can  we  find  a  remedy 
for  its  sore  sicknesses?  That  method  has  been 
used,  and  used  with  success  in  every  other 
kind  of  investigation,  and  we  must  investi- 
gate life  too,  even  if  it  turns  out  to  be  all  a 
kind  of  Mendelism,  moved  and  swayed  by  ab- 
solutely fixed  laws,  which  take  no  account  of 
what  we  sorrowfully  desire. 

Let  us,  then,  gather  up  our  threads  a  little. 
Let  us  first  confront  the  fact  that,  under  pres- 
ent conditions,  in  the  face  of  the  mass  of 
records  and  books  and  accumulated  traditions, 
arts  and  sciences  must  make  progress  little 
by  little,  line  by  line,  in  skilled  technical 
hands.  Fine  achievement  in  every  region  be- 
comes more  diflQcult  every  day,  because  there 
is  so  much  that  is  finished  and  perfected  be- 
hind us;  and  if  the  conditions  of  our  lives  call 
UR  to  some  strictly  limited  path,  let  us  advance 


Specialism  145 

wisely  and  humbly,  step  by  step,  without  pride 
or  vanity.  But  let  us  not  forget,  in  the  face 
of  the  frigidities  of  knowledge,  that  if  they 
are  the  mechanism  of  life,  emotion  and  hope 
and  love  and  admiration  are  the  steam. 
Knowledge  is  only  valuable  in  so  far  as  it 
makes  the  force  of  life  effective  and  vigorous. 
And  thus  if  we  have  breasted  the  strange  cur- 
rent of  life,  or  even  if  we  have  been  ourselves 
overpowered  and  swept  away  by  it,  let  us  try, 
in  whatever  region  we  have  the  power,  to  let 
that  experience  have  some  value  for  ourselves 
and  others.  If  we  can  say  it  or  write  it,  so 
much  the  better.  There  are  thousands  of  peo- 
ple moving  through  the  world  who  are  wearied 
and  bewildered,  and  who  are  looking  out  for 
any  message  of  hope  and  joy  that  may  give  them 
courage  to  struggle  on;  but  if  we  cannot  do 
that,  we  can  at  least  live  life  temperately  and 
cheerfully  and  sincerely:  if  we  have  bungled, 
if  we  have  slipped,  we  can  do  something  to 
help  others  not  to  go  light-heartedly  down 
the  miry  path;  we  can  raise  them  up  if  they 
have  fallen,  we  can  cleanse  the  stains,  or  we  can 
at  least  give  them  the  comfort  of  feeling  that 
they  are  not  sadly  and  insupportably  alone. 


yii 

Our  Lack  of  Great  Men 

IT  is  often  mournfully  reiterated  that  the 
present  age  is  not  an  age  of  great  men, 
tnd  I  have  sometimes  wondered  if  it  is  true. 
In  the  first  place  I  do  not  feel  sure  that  an 
age  is  the  best  judge  of  its  own  greatness;  a 
great  age  is  generally  more  interested  in  do- 
ing the  things  which  afterwards  cause  it  to 
be  considered  great,  than  in  wondering 
whether  it  is  great.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  we 
are  on  the  look-out  for  great  men,  and  com- 
plaining because  we  cannot  find  them,  is  the 
best  proof  of  our  second-rateness ;  I  do  not 
imagine  that  the  Elizabethan  writers  were 
much  concerned  with  thinking  whether  they 
were  great  or  not;  they  were  much  more  oc- 
cupied in  having  a  splendid  time,  and  in  say- 
146 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       147 

ing  as  eagerly  as  they  could  all  the  delightful 
thoughts  which  came  crowding  to  the  utter- 
ance, than  in  pondering  whether  they  were 
worthy  of  admiration.  In  the  annals  of  the 
Renaissance  one  gets  almost  weary  of  the  re- 
cords of  brilliant  persons,  like  Leo  Battista 
Albert!  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  who  were 
architects,  sculptors,  painters,  musicians, 
athletes,  and  writers  all  in  one;  who  could 
make  crowds  weep  by  twanging  a  lute,  ride 
the  most  vicious  horses,  take  standing  jumps 
over  the  heads  of  tall  men,  and  who  were, 
moreover,  so  impressionable  that  books  were 
to  them  as  jewels  and  flowers,  and  who  "  grew 
faint  at  the  sight  of  sunsets  and  stately  per- 
sons." Such  as  these,  we  may  depend  upon 
it,  had  little  time  to  give  to  considering  their 
own  effect  upon  posterity.  When  the  sun 
rules  the  day,  there  is  no  question  about  his 
supremacy;  it  is  when  we  are  concerned  with 
scanning  the  sky  for  lesser  lights  to  rule  the 
night  that  we  are  wasting  time.  To  go  about 
searching  for  somebody  to  inspire  one  testi- 
fies, no  doubt,  to  a  certain  lack  of  fire  and 
initiative.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  have 
been  many  great  men  whose  greatness  their 


148  At  Large 

contemporaries  did  not  recognise.  We  tend 
at  the  present  time  to  honour  achievements 
when  they  have  begun  to  grow  a  little  mouldy; 
we  seldom  accord  ungrudging  admiration  to 
a  prophet  when  he  is  at  his  best.  Moreover, 
in  an  age  like  the  present,  when  the  general 
average  of  accomplishment  is  remarkably  high, 
it  is  more  difficult  to  detect  greatness.  It  is 
easier  to  see  big  trees  when  the}'  stand  out 
over  a  copse  than  when  they  are  lost  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest. 

Now  there  are  two  modes  and  methods  of 
being  great;  one  is  by  largeness,  the  other  by 
intensity.  A  great  man  can  be  cast  in  a  big, 
magnanimous  mould,  without  any  very  special 
accomplishments  or  abilities;  it  may  be  very 
difficult  to  praise  any  of  his  faculties  very 
highly,  but  he  is  there.  Such  men  are  the 
natural  leaders  of  mankind;  they  effect  what 
they  effect  not  by  any  subtlety  or  ingenuity. 
They  see  in  a  wide,  general  way  what  they 
want,  they  gather  friends  and  followers 
and  helpers  round  them,  and  put  the  right 
man  on  at  the  right  piece  of  work.  They 
perform  what  they  perform  by  a  kind  of  volu- 
minous force,  which  carries  other  personali- 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       149 

ties  away;  for  lesser  natures,  as  a  rule,  do  not 
like  supreme  responsibility;  they  enjoy  what 
is  to  ordinary  people  the  greatest  luxury  in 
the  world,  namely,  the  being  sympathetically 
commandeered,  and  duly  valued.  Inspiration 
and  leadership  are  not  common  gifts,  and  there 
are  abundance  of  capable  people  who  cannot 
strike  out  a  novel  line  of  their  own,  but  can 
do  excellent  work  if  they  can  be  inspired  and 
led.  I  was  once  for  a  short  time  brought  into 
close  contact  with  a  man  of  this  kind;  it  was 
impossible  to  put  down  on  paper  or  to  ex- 
plain to  those  who  did  not  know  him  what 
his  claim  to  greatness  was.  I  remember  being 
asked  by  an  incredulous  outsider  where  his 
greatness  lay,  and  I  could  not  name  a  single 
conspicuous  quality  that  my  hero  possessed. 
But  he  dominated  his  circle,  for  all  that,  and 
many  of  them  were  men  of  far  greater  intel- 
lectual force  than  himself.  He  had  his  own 
way;  if  he  asked  one  to  do  a  particular  thing, 
one  felt  proud  to  be  entrusted  with  it,  and 
amply  rewarded  by  a  word  of  approval.  It 
was  possible  to  take  a  different  view  from  the 
view  which  he  took  of  a  matter  or  a  situation, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  express  one's  dissent 


15©  At  Large 

in  his  presence.  A  few  halting,  fumbling 
words  of  his  were  more  weighty  than  many  a 
facile  and  voluble  oration.  Personally  I  often 
mistrusted  his  judgment,  but  I  followed  him 
with  an  eager  delight.  With  such  men  as 
these,  posterity  is  often  at  a  loss  to  know  why 
they  impressed  their  contemporaries,  or  why 
they  continue  to  be  spoken  of  with  reverence 
and  enthusiasm.  The  secret  is  that  it  is  a 
kind  of  moral  and  magnetic  force,  and  the  la- 
mentable part  of  it  is  that  such  men,  if  they 
are  not  enlightened  and  wise,  may  do  more 
harm  than  good,  because  they  tend  to  stereo- 
type what  ought  to  be  changed  and  renewed. 

That  is  one  way  of  greatness;  a  sort  of  big, 
blunt  force  that  overwhelms  and  uplifts,  like 
a  great  sea-roller,  yielding  at  a  hundred  small 
points,  yet  crowding  onwards  in  soft  volume 
and  ponderous  weight. 

Two  interesting  examples  of  this  impres- 
sive and  indescribable  greatness  seem  to  have 
been  Arthur  Hallam  and  the  late  Mr.  W.  E. 
Henley.  In  the  case  of  Arthur  Hallam,  the 
eulogies  which  his  friends  pronounced  upon 
him  seem  couched  in  terms  of  an  intemperate 
extravagance.    The  fact  that  the  most  splen- 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       151 

did  panegyrics  upon  him  were  uttered  by  men 
of  high  genius  is  not  in  itself  more  conclusive 
than  if  such  panegyrics  had  been  conceived  by 
men  of  lesser  quality,  because  the  greater  that 
a  man  is  the  more  readily  does  he  perceive  and 
more  magniloquently  acknowledge  greatness. 
Apart  from  In  Memoriam,  Tennyson's  re- 
corded utterances  about  Arthur  Hallam  are 
expressed  in  terms  of  almost  hyperbolical 
laudation.  I  once  was  fortunate  enough  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  asking  Mr.  Gladstone 
about  Arthur  Hallam.  Mr.  Gladstone  had 
been  his  close  friend  at  Eton  and  his  constant 
companion.  His  eye  flashed,  his  voice  gath- 
ered volume,  and  with  a  fine  gesture  of  his 
hand  he  said  that  he  could  only  deliberately 
affirm  that  physically,  intellectually,  and  mor- 
ally, Arthur  Hallam  approached  more  nearly 
to  an  ideal  of  human  perfection  than  any  one 
whom  he  had  ever  seen.  And  yet  the  picture 
of  Hallam  at  Eton  represents  a  young  man  of 
an  apparently  solid  and  commonplace  type, 
with  a  fresh  colour,  and  almost  wholly  desti- 
tute of  distinction  or  charm;  while  his  extant 
fragments  of  prose  and  poetry  are  heavy, 
verbose,  and  elaborate,  and  without  any  mem- 


152  At  Large 

orable  quality.  It  appears  indeed  as  if  he 
had  exercised  a  sort  of  hypnotic  influence  upon 
his  contemporaries.  Neither  does  he  seem  to 
have  produced  a  very  gracious  impression  upon 
outsiders  who  happened  to  meet  him.  There 
is  a  curious  anecdote  told  by  some  one  who 
met  Arthur  Hallam  travelling  with  his  father 
on  the  Continent  only  a  short  time  before  his 
sudden  death.  The  narrator  says  that  he  saw 
with  a  certain  satisfaction  how  mercilessly 
the  young  man  criticised  and  exposed  his 
father's  statements,  remembering  how  merci- 
less the  father  had  often  been  in  dealing  sum- 
marily with  the  arguments  and  statements  of 
his  own  contemporaries.  One  asks  oneself  in 
vain  what  the  magnetic  charm  of  his  presence 
and  temperament  can  have  been.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly there,  and  yet  it  seems  wholly 
irrecoverable.  The  same  is  true,  in  a  different 
region,  with  the  late  Mr.  W.  E.  Henley.  His 
literary  performances,  with  the  exception  of 
some  half  a  dozen  poetical  pieces,  have  no  great 
permanent  value.  His  criticisms  were  vehe- 
ment and  complacent,  but  represent  no  great 
delicacy  of  analysis  nor  breadth  of  view. 
His  treatment  of  Stevenson,  considering  the 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       153 

circumstances  of  the  case,  was  ungenerous  and 
irritable.  Yet  those  who  were  brought  into 
close  contact  with  Henley  recognised  some- 
thing magnanimous,  noble,  and  fiery  about 
him,  which  evoked  a  passionate  devotion.  I  re- 
member shortly  before  his  death  reading  an 
appreciation  of  his  work  by  a  faithful  admirer, 
who  described  him  as  "  another  Dr.  Johnson," 
and  speaking  of  his  critical  judgment,  said, 
"  Mr.  Henley  is  pontifical  in  his  wrath ;  it 
pleased  him,  for  example,  to  deny  to  De  Quin- 
cey  the  title  to  write  English  prose-"  That  a 
criticism  so  arrogant,  so  saugrenu,  should  be 
re-echoed  with  such  devoted  commendation  is 
a  proof  that  the  writer's  independent  judg- 
ment was  simply  swept  away  by  Hen- 
ley's personality;  and  in  both  these  cases  one 
is  merely  brought  face  to  face  with  the  fact 
that  though  men  can  earn  the  admiration  of 
the  world  by  effective  performance,  the  most 
spontaneous  and  enduring  gratitude  is  given 
to  individuality. 

The  other  way  of  greatness  is  the  way  of 
intensity,  that  focuses  all  its  impact  at  some 
brilliant  point,  like  a  rapier-thrust  or  a  flash 
of   lightning.     Men   with   this   kind   of  great- 


154  At  Large 

ness  have  generally  some  supreme  anS  dazzling 
accomplishment,  and  the  rest  of  their  nature 
is  often  sacrificed  to  one  radiant  faculty. 
Their  power,  in  some  one  single  direction, 
is  absolutely  distinct  and  unquestioned;  and 
these  are  the  men  who,  if  they  can  gather  up 
and  express  the  forces  of  some  vague  and  wide- 
spread tendency,  some  blind  and  instinctive 
movement  of  men's  minds,  form  as  it  were  the 
cutting  edge  of  a  weapon.  They  do  not  supply 
the  force,  but  they  concentrate  it ;  and  it  is  men 
of  this  type  who  are  often  credited  with  the 
bringing  about  of  some  profound  and  revolu- 
tionary change,  because  they  summarise  and 
define  some  huge  force  that  is  abroad.  Not  to 
travel  far  for  instances,  such  a  man  was 
Rousseau.  The  air  of  his  period  was  full  of 
sentiments  and  emotions  and  ideas;  he  was 
not  himself  a  man  of  force;  he  was  a  dreamer 
and  a  poet;  but  he  had  the  matchless  gift  of 
ardent  expression,  and  he  was  able  to  say 
both  trenchantly  and  attractively  exactly  what 
every  one  was  vaguely  meditating. 

Now  let  us  take  some  of  the  chief  depart- 
ments of  human  effort,  some  of  the  provinces 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       155 

in  which  men  attain  supreme  fame,  and  con- 
sider what  kinds  of  greatness  we  should 
expect  the  present  day  to  evoke.  In  the  depart- 
ment of  warfare,  we  have  had  few  opportuni- 
ties of  late  to  discover  high  strategical  genius. 
Our  navy  has  been  practically  unemployed, 
and  the  South  African  War  was  just  the  sort 
of  campaign  to  reveal  the  deficiencies  of  an 
elaborate  and  not  very  practical  peace  estab- 
lishment. Though  it  solidified  a  few  reputa- 
tions and  pricked  the  bubble  of  some  few 
others,  it  certainly  did  not  reveal  any  subtle 
adaptability  in  our  generals.  It  was  Lord 
North,  I  think,  who,  when  discussing  with  his 
Cabinet  a  list  of  names  of  officers  suggested 
for  the  conduct  of  a  campaign,  said,  "  I  do  not 
know  what  effect  these  names  produce  upon 
you,  gentlemen,  but  I  confess  they  make  me 
tremble."  The  South  African  War  can  hardly 
be  said  to  have  revealed  that  we  have 
many  generals  who  closely  correspond  to 
Wordsworth's  description  of  the  Happy  War- 
rior, but  rather  induced  the  tremulousness 
which  Lord  North  experienced.  Still,  if,  in 
the  strategical  region,  our  solitary  recent  cam- 


156  At  Large 

paign  rather  tends  to  prove  a  deficiency  of 
men  of  supreme  gifts,  it  at  all  events  proved 
a  considerable  degree  of  competence  and  de- 
votion. I  could  not  go  so  far  as  a  recent 
writer  who  regretted  the  termination  of  the 
Boer  War  because  it  interrupted  the  evolution 
of  tactical  science,  but  it  is  undoubtedly  true 
that  the  growing  aversion  to  war,  the  intense 
dislike  to  the  sacrifice  of  human  life,  creates 
an  atmosphere  unfavourable  to  the  develop- 
ment of  high  military  genius;  because  great 
military  reputations  in  times  past  have  gen- 
erally been  acquired  by  men  who  had  no  such 
scruples,  but  who  treated  the  material  of  their 
armies  as  pawns  to  be  freely  sacrificed  to  the 
attainment  of  victory. 

Then  there  is  the  region  of  statesmanship; 
and  here  it  is  abundantly  clear  that  the  social 
conditions  of  the  day,  the  democratic  current 
which  runs  with  increasing  spirit  in  polit- 
ical channels  are  unfavourable  to  the  develop- 
ment of  individual  genius.  The  prize  falls  to 
the  sagacious  opportunist;  the  statesman  is 
less  and  less  of  a  navigator,  and  more  and  more 
of  a  pilot,  in  times  when  popular  feeling  is 
conciliated    and   interpreted   rather   than    in- 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       157 

spired  and  guided.  To  be  far-seeing  and  dar- 
ing is  a  disadvantage;  the  most  approved 
leader  is  the  man  who  can  harmonise  discord- 
ant sections,  and  steer  round  obvious  and 
pressing  difficulties.  Geniality  and  ionhomie 
are  more  valuable  qualities  than  prescience  or 
nobility  of  aim.  The  more  representative  that 
government  becomes,  the  more  does  originality 
give  place  to  malleability.  The  more  fluid  that 
the  conceptions  of  a  statesman  are,  the  greater 
that  his  adaptability  is,  the  more  acceptable 
he  becomes.  Since  Lord  Beaconsfleld,  with  all 
his  trenchant  mystery,  and  Mr.  Gladstone, 
with  his  voluble  candour,  there  have  been  no 
figures  of  unquestioned  supremacy  on  the  po- 
litical stage.  Even  so,  the  effect  in  both  cases 
was  to  a  great  extent  the  effect  of  personality. 
The  further  that  these  two  men  retire  into  the 
past,  the  more  that  they  are  judged  by  the 
WTitten  record,  the  more  does  the  tawdriness 
of  Lord  Beaconsfield's  mind,  his  absence  of 
sincere  convictions  appear,  as  well  as  the 
pedestrianism  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  mind,  and 
his  lack  of  critical  perception.  I  have  heard 
Mr.  Gladstone  speak,  and  on  one  occasion  I 
had  the  task  of  reporting  for  a  daily  paper  a 


iS8  At  Large 

private  oration  on  a  literary  subject.  I  was 
thrilled  to  the  very  marrow  of  my  being  by 
the  address.  The  parchment  pallor  of  the 
orator,  his  glowing  and  blazing  eyes,  his  leo- 
nine air,  the  voice  that  seemed  to  have  a  sort 
of  physical  effect  on  the  nerves,  his  great  sweep- 
ing gestures,  all  held  the  audience  spell-bound. 
I  felt  at  the  time  that  I  had  never  before  real- 
ised the  supreme  and  vital  importance  of  the 
subject  on  which  he  spoke.  But  when  I  tried 
to  reconstruct  from  the  ashes  of  my  industri- 
ous notes  the  mental  conflagration  which  I 
had  witnessed,  I  was  at  a  complete  loss  to 
understand  what  had  happened.  The  records 
were  not  only  dull,  they  seemed  essentially 
trivial,  and  almost  overwhelmingly  unimpor- 
tant. But  the  magic  had  been  there.  Apart 
from  the  substance,  the  performance  had  been 
literally  enchanting.  I  do  not  honestly  be- 
lieve that  Mr.  Gladstone  was  a  man  of  great 
intellectual  force,  or  even  of  very  deep  emo- 
tions. He  was  a  man  of  extraordinarily 
vigorous  and  robust  brain,  and  he  was  a  su- 
preme oratorical  artist.  There  is  intellect, 
charm,  humour  in  abundance  in  the  parlia- 
mentary forces;  there  was  probably   never  a 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       159 

time  when  there  were  so  many  able  and  am- 
bitious men  to  be  found  in  the  rank  and  file 
of  parliamentarians.  But  that  is  not  enough. 
There  is  no  supremely  impressive  and  com- 
manding figure  on  the  stage ;  greatness  seems  to 
be  distributed  rather  than  concentrated;  but 
probably  neither  this,  nor  political  conditions, 
would  prevent  the  generous  recognition  of 
supreme  genius,  if  it  were  there  to  recognise. 

In  art  and  literature,  I  am  inclined  to  be- 
lieve that  we  shall  look  back  to  the  Victorian 
era  as  a  time  of  great  activity  and  high  per- 
formance. The  two  tendencies  here  which 
militate  against  the  appearance  of  the  great- 
est figures  are,  in  the  first  place,  the  great  ac- 
cumulations of  art  and  literature,  and  in  the 
second  place  the  democratic  desire  to  share 
those  treasures.  The  accumulation  of  pic- 
tures, music,  and  books  makes  it  undoubtedly 
very  hard  for  a  new  artist,  in  whatever  region, 
to  gain  prestige.  There  is  so  much  that  is  un- 
doubtedly great  and  good  for  a  student  of  art 
and  literature  to  make  acquaintance  with, 
that  we  are  apt  to  be  content  with  the  old  vint- 
ages. The  result  is  that  there  are  a  good 
many  artists  who,  in  a  time  of  less  produc- 


i6o  At  Large 

tivity,  would  have  made  themselves  an  endur- 
ing reputation,  and  who  now  must  be  content 
to  be  recognised  only  by  a  few.  The  difficulty 
can,  I  think,  only  be  met  by  some  principle  of 
selection  being  more  rigidly  applied.  We 
shall  have  to  be  content  to  skim  the  cream 
of  the  old  as  well  as  of  the  new,  and  to  allow 
the  second-rate  work  of  first-rate  performers 
to  sink  into  oblivion.  But  at  the  same  time 
there  might  be  a  great  future  before  any  artist 
who  could  discover  a  new  medium  of  utter- 
ance. It  seems  at  present,  to  take  literature, 
as  if  every  form  of  human  expression  had 
been  exploited.  We  have  the  lyric,  the  epic, 
the  satire,  the  narrative,  the  letter,  the  diary, 
conversation,  all  embalmed  in  art.  But  there 
is  probably  some  other  medium  possible  which 
will  become  perfectly  obvious  the  moment  it 
is  seized  upon  and  used.  To  take  an  instance 
from  pictorial  art.  At  present,  colour  is  only 
used  in  a  genre  manner,  to  clothe  some  dra- 
matic motive.  But  there  seems  no  prima 
facie  reason  why  colour  should  not  be  used 
symphonically  like  music.  In  music  we  ob- 
tain pleasure  from  an  orderly  sequence  of  vi- 
brations, and  there  seems  no  real  reason  why 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       i6i 

the  eye  should  not  be  charmed  with  colour- 
sequences  just  as  the  ear  is  charmed  with 
sound-sequences.  So  in  literature  it  would 
seem  as  though  we  might  get  closer  still  to  the 
expression  of  mere  personality,  by  the  medium 
of  some  sublimated  form  of  reverie,  the 
thought  blended  and  tinged  in  the  subtlest 
gradations,  without  the  clumsy  necessity 
of  sacrificing  the  sequence  of  thought  to  the 
barbarous  devices  of  metre  and  rhyme,  or  to 
the  still  more  childish  devices  of  incident  and 
drama.  Flaubert,  it  will  be  remembered, 
looked  forward  to  a  time  when  a  writer  would 
not  require  a  subject  at  all,  but  would  express 
emotion  and  thought  directly  rather  than 
pictorially.  To  utter  the  unuttered  thought — 
that  is  really  the  problem  of  literature  in  the 
future;  and  if  a  writer  could  be  found  to  free 
himself  from  all  stereotyped  forms  of  expres- 
sion, and  to  give  utterance  to  the  strange  tex- 
ture of  thought  and  fancy,  which  dififerentiates 
each  single  personality  so  distinctly,  so  in- 
tegrally, from  other  personalities,  and  which 
we  cannot  communicate  to  our  dearest  and 
nearest,  he  might  enter  upon  a  new  province 
of  art. 

XX 


1 62  At  Large 

But  the  second  tendency  which  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  dominates  writers  is,  as  I  have 
said,  the  rising  democratic  interest  in  the 
things  of  the  mind.  This  is  at  present  a  very 
inchoate  and  uncultivated  interest;  but  in 
days  of  cheap  publication  and  large  audiences 
it  dominates  many  writers  disastrously.  The 
temptation  is  a  grievous  one — to  take  advan- 
tage of  a  market — not  to  produce  what  is  ab- 
solutely the  best,  but  what  is  popular  and 
effective.  It  is  not  a  wholly  ignoble  tempta- 
tion. It  is  not  only  the  temptation  of  wealth, 
though  in  an  age  of  comfort,  which  values 
social  respectability  so  highly,  wealth  is  a 
great  temptation.  But  the  temptation  is 
rather  to  gauge  success  by  the  power  of  ap- 
peal. If  a  man  has  ideas  at  all,  he  is  naturally 
anxious  to  make  them  felt;  and  if  he  can  do 
it  best  by  spreading  his  ideas  rather  thinly, 
by  making  them  attractive  to  enthusiastic 
people  of  inferior  intellectual  grip,  he  feels 
he  is  doing  a  noble  work.  The  truth  is  that 
in  literature  the  democracy  desires  not  ideas 
but  morality.  All  the  best-known  writers  of 
the  Victorian  age  have  been  optimistic  moral- 
ists.   Browning,    Ruskin,    Carlyle,    Tennyson, 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men      163 

They  have  been  admired  because  they  concealed 
their  essential  conventionality  under  a  slight 
perfume  of  unorthodoxy.  They  all  in  reality 
pandered  to  the  complacency  of  the  age,  in  a 
way  in  which  Byron,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and 
Keats  did  not  pander.  The  democracy  loves 
to  be  assured  that  it  is  generous,  high-minded, 
and  sensible.  It  is  in  reality  timid,  narrow- 
minded,  and  Pharisaical.  It  hates  indepen- 
dence and  originality,  and  loves  to  believe  that 
it  adores  both.  It  loves  Mr.  Kipling  because 
he  assures  people  that  vulgarity  is  not  a  sin; 
it  loves  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  because  he  per- 
suades people  that  they  are  cleverer  than  they 
imagined.  The  fact  is  that  great  men,  in  lit- 
erature at  all  events,  must  be  content,  at  the 
present  time,  to  be  unrecognised  and  unao- 
claimed.  They  must  be  content  to  be  of  the 
happy  company  of  whom  Mr.  Swinburne 
writes : — 

*'In  the  garden  of  death,  where  the  singers,  whose 
names  are  deathless, 
One  with  another  make  music  unheard  of  men." 

Then   there  is   the   region   of   Science,   and 
here  I  am  not  qualified  to  speak,  because  I 


i64  At  Large 

know  no  soience,  and  have  not  even  taught  it, 
as  Mr.  Arthur  Sidgwick  said.  I  do  not  really 
know  what  constitutes  greatness  in  science. 
I  suppose  that  the  great  man  of  science  is  the 
man  who  to  a  power  of  endlessly  patient  in- 
vestigation joins  a  splendid  imaginative,  op 
perhaps  deductive  power,  like  Newton  or  Dar- 
win. But  we  who  stand  at  the  threshold  of 
the  scientific  era  are  perhaps  too  near  the 
light,  and  too  much  dazzled  by  the  results  of 
scientific  discovery  to  say  who  is  great  and 
who  is  not  great.  I  have  met  several  dis- 
tinguished men  of  science,  and  I  have  thought 
some  of  them  to  be  men  of  obviously  high  in- 
tellectual gifts,  and  some  of  them  men  of  inert 
and  secretive  temperaments.  But  that  is 
only  natural,  for  to  be  great  in  other  depart- 
ments generally  implies  a  certain  knowledge 
of  the  world,  or  at  all  events  of  the  thought  of 
the  world;  whereas  the  great  man  of  science 
may  be  moving  in  regions  of  thought  that 
may  be  absolutely  incommunicable  to  the  or- 
dinary person.  But  I  do  not  suppose  that 
scientific  greatness  is  a  thing  which  can  be 
measured  by  the  importance  of  the  practical 
results  of  a  discovery.    I  mean  that  a  man 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       165 

may  hit  upon  some  process,  or  some  treatment 
of  disease,  which  may  be  of  incalculable  bene- 
fit to  humanity,  and  yet  not  be  really  a  great 
man  of  science,  only  a  fortunate  discoverer, 
and  incidentally  a  great  benefactor  to  hu- 
manity. The  unknown  discoverers  of  things 
like  the  screw  or  the  wheel,  persons  lost  in 
the  mists  of  antiquity,  could  not,  I  suppose,  be 
ranked  as  great  men  of  science.  The  great 
man  of  science  is  the  man  who  can  draw  some 
stupendous  inference,  which  revolutionises 
thought  and  sets  men  hopefully  at  work  on 
some  problem  which  does  not  so  much  add  to 
the  convenience  of  humanity  as  define  the  laws 
of  nature.  We  are  still  surrounded  by  in- 
numerable and  awful  mysteries  of  life  and 
being;  the  evidence  which  will  lead  to  their 
solution  is  probably  in  our  hands  and  plain 
enough,  if  any  one  could  but  see  the  bearing  of 
facts  which  are  known  to  the  simplest  child. 
There  is  little  doubt,  I  suppose,  that  the  great- 
est reputations  of  recent  years  have  been  made 
in  science;  and  perhaps  when  our  present  age 
has  globed  itself  into  a  cycle,  we  shall  be 
amazed  at  the  complaint  that  the  present  era 
is  lacking  in  great  men.    We  are  busy  in  look- 


1 66  At  Large 

ing  for  greatness  in  so  many  directions,  and  we 
are  apt  to  suppose,  from  long  nse,  that  great- 
ness is  so  inseparably  connected  with  some 
form  of  human  expression,  whether  it  be  the 
utterance  of  thought  or  the  marshalling  of 
armies,  that  we  may  be  overlooking  a  more 
stable  form  of  greatness,  which  will  be  patent 
to  those  that  come  after.  My  own  belief  is 
that  the  condition  of  science  at  the  present 
day  answers  best  to  the  conditions  which  we 
have  learnt  to  recognise  in  the  past  as  the 
fruitful  soil  of  greatness.  I  mean  that  when 
we  put  our  finger,  in  the  past,  on  some  period 
which  seems  to  have  been  producing  great 
work  in  a  great  way,  we  generally  find  it  in 
some  knot  or  school  of  people,  intensely  ab- 
sorbed in  what  they  were  doing,  and  doing  it 
with  a  whole-hearted  enjoyment,  loving  the 
work  more  than  the  rewards  of  it,  and  indif- 
ferent to  the  pursuit  of  fame.  Such  it  seems 
to  me  is  the  condition  of  science  at  the  pres- 
ent time,  and  it  is  in  science,  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  that  our  heroes  are  probably  to  be 
found. 

I  do  not,  then,  feel  at  all  sure  that  we  are 
lacking  in  great  men,  though  it  must  be  ad- 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       167 

mitted  that  we  are  lacking  in  men  whose  su- 
premacy is  recognised.  I  suppose  we  mean 
by  a  great  man  one  who  in  some  region  of 
human  performance  is  confessedly  pre-emi- 
nent; and  he  must  further  have  a  theory  of 
his  own,  and  a  power  of  pursuing  that  theory 
in  the  face  of  depreciation  and  even  hostility. 
I  do  not  think  that  great  men  have  often  been 
indifferent  to  criticism.  Often,  indeed,  by 
virtue  of  a  greater  sensitiveness  and  a  keener 
perception,  they  have  been  profoundly  affected 
by  unpopularity  and  the  sense  of  being  misun- 
derstood. Carlyle,  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  for  in- 
stance, were  men  of  almost  morbid  sensibility, 
and  lived  in  sadness;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  few  great  men  who  have  not  been 
affected  for  the  worse  by  premature  success. 
The  best  soil  for  greatness  to  grow  up  in 
would  seem  to  be  an  early  isolation,  sustained 
against  the  disregard  of  the  world  by  the 
affection  and  admiration  of  a  few  kindred 
minds.  Then  when  the  great  man  has  learned 
his  method  and  his  message,  and  learned  too 
not  to  over-value  the  popular  verdict,  success 
may  mature  and  mellow  his  powers.  Yet  of 
how  many  great  men  can  this  be  said?    As  a 


i68  At  Large 

rule,  indeed,  a  great  man's  best  work  has  been 
done  in  solitude  and  disfavour,  and  he  has 
attained  his  sunshine  when  he  can  no  longer 
do  his  best  work. 

The  question  is  whether  the  modern  condi- 
tions of  life  are  unfavourable  to  greatness; 
and  I  think  that  it  must  be  confessed  that 
they  are.  In  the  first  place,  we  all  know  so 
much  too  about  each  other,  and  there  is  so 
eager  a  personal  curiosity  abroad,  a  curiosity 
about  the  smallest  details  of  the  life  of  any 
one  who  seems  to  have  any  power  of  perform- 
ance, that  it  encourages  men  to  over-confi- 
dence, egotism,  and  mannerism.  Again,  the 
world  is  so  much  in  love  with  novelty  and 
sensation  of  all  kinds,  that  facile  successes 
are  easily  made  and  as  easily  obliterated. 
What  so  many  people  admire  is  not  greatness, 
but  the  realisation  of  greatness  and  its  tangi- 
ble rewards.  The  result  of  this  is  that  men 
who  show  any  faculty  for  impressing  the 
world  are  exploited  and  caressed,  are  played 
with  as  a  toy,  and  as  a  toy  neglected.  And 
then,  too,  the  age  is  deeply  permeated  by  so- 
cial ambitions.  Men  love  to  be  labelled, 
ticketed,    decorated,    differentiated    from    the 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       169 

crowd.  Newspapers  pander  to  this  taste; 
and  then  the  ease  and  rapidity  of  movement 
tempt  men  to  a  restless  variety  of  experience, 
of  travel,  of  society,  of  change,  which  is  alien 
to  the  settled  and  sober  temper  in  which  great 
designs  are  matured.  There  is  a  story,  not 
uncharacteristic,  of  modern  social  life,  of  a 
hostess  who  loved  to  assemble  about  her,  in 
the  style  of  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter,  notabilities 
small  and  great,  who  was  reduced  to  present- 
ing a  young  man  who  made  his  appearance  at 

one  of   her  gatherings   as   "  Mr.  ,   whose 

uncle,    you    will    remember,    was    so    terribly 

mangled  in   the  railway  accident  at  S ." 

It  is  this  feverish  desire  to  be  distin- 
guished at  any  price  which  has  its  counter- 
part in  the  feverish  desire  to  find  objects  of 
admiration.  Not  so  can  solid  greatness  be 
achieved. 

The  plain  truth  is  that  no  one  can  become 
great  by  taking  thought,  and  still  less  by  de- 
siring greatness.  It  is  not  an  attainable 
thing;  fame  only  is  attainable.  A  man  must 
be  great  in  his  own  quiet  way,  and  the  greater 
he  is,  the  less  likely  is  he  to  concern  himself 
with  fame.     It  is  useless  to  try  and  copy  some 


I70  At  Large 

one  else's  greatness ;  that  is  like  trying  to  look 
like  some  one  else's  portrait,  even  if  it  be  a  por- 
trait by  Velasquez.  Not  that  modesty  is  insepa- 
rable from  greatness;  there  are  abundance  of 
great  men  who  have  been  childishly  and  gro- 
tesquely vain;  but  in  such  cases  it  has  been  a 
greatness  of  performance,  a  marvellous  faculty, 
not  a  greatness  of  soul.  Hazlitt  says  some- 
where that  modesty  is  the  lowest  of  the 
virtues,  and  a  real  confession  of  the  deficiency 
which  it  indicates.  He  adds  that  a  man  who 
underrates  himself  is  justly  undervalued  by 
others.  This  is  a  cynical  and  a  vulgar  maxim. 
It  is  true  that  a  great  man  must  have  a  due 
sense  of  the  dignity  and  importance  of  his 
work;  but  if  he  is  truly  great,  he  will  have 
also  a  sense  of  relation  and  proportion,  and 
not  forget  the  minuteness  of  any  individual 
atom.  If  he  has  a  real  greatness  of  soul,  he 
will  not  be  apt  to  compare  himself  with 
others,  and  he  will  be  inclined  to  an  even  over- 
generous  estimate  of  the  value  of  the  work  of 
others.  In  no  respect  was  the  greatness  of 
D.  G.  Rossetti  more  exemplified  than  in  his 
almost  extravagant  appreciation  of  the  work 
of  his  friends;  and  it  was  to  this  royalty  of 


Our  Lack  of  Great  Men       171 

temperament  that  he  largely  owed  his  per- 
sonal supremacy. 

I  would  believe  then  that  the  lack  of  con- 
spicuous greatness  is  due  at  this  time  to  the 
over-abundant  vitality  and  eagerness  of  the 
world,  rather  than  to  any  languor  or  listless- 
ness  of  spirit.  The  rise  of  the  decadent  school 
in  art  and  literature  is  not  the  least  sign 
of  any  indolent  or  corrupt  deterioration.  It 
rather  shows  a  desperate  appetite  for  testing 
sensation,  a  fierce  hunger  for  emotional  ex- 
perience, a  feverish  ambition  to  impress  a 
point-of-view.  It  is  all  part  of  a  revolt 
against  settled  ways  and  conventional  theo- 
ries. I  do  not  mean  that  we  can  expect  to 
find  greatness  in  this  direction,  for  greatness 
is  essentially  well-balanced,  calm,  deliberate, 
and  decadence  is  a  sign  of  a  neurotic  and 
over-vitalised  activity. 

Our  best  hope  is  that  this  excessive  rest- 
lessness of  spirit  will  produce  a  revolt  against 
itself.  The  essence  of  greatness  is  uncon- 
ventionality,  and  restlessness  is  now  becoming 
conventional.  In  education,  in  art,  in  litera- 
ture, in  politics,  in  social  life,  we  lose  our- 
selves  in   denunciations  of  the  dreamer  and 


172  At  Large 

the  loafer.  We  cannot  bear  to  see  a  slowly- 
moving,  deliberate,  self-contained  spirit, 
advancing  quietly  on  its  discerned  path.  In- 
stead of  being  content  to  perform  faithfully 
and  conscientiously  our  allotted  task,  which 
is  the  way  in  which  we  can  best  help  the 
world,  we  demand  that  every  one  should  want 
to  do  good,  to  be  responsible  for  some  one  else, 
to  exhort,  urge,  beckon,  restrain,  manage. 
That  is  all  utterly  false  and  hectic.  Our  aim 
should  be  patience  rather  than  effectiveness, 
sincerity  rather  than  adaptability,  to  learn 
rather  than  to  teach,  to  ponder  rather  than  to 
I)ersuade,  to  know  the  truth  rather  than  to 
create  illusion,  however  comforting,  however 
delightful  such  illusion  may  be. 


VIII 

Shyness 

I  HAVE  no  doubt  that  shyness  is  one  of  the 
old,  primitive,  aboriginal  qualities  that 
lurk  in  human  nature — one  of  the  crude  ele- 
ments that  ought  to  have  been  uprooted  by 
civilisation,  and  security,  and  progress,  and 
enlightened  ideals,  but  which  have  not  been 
uprooted,  and  are  only  being  slowly  elimi- 
nated. It  is  seen,  as  all  aboriginal  qualities 
are  seen,  at  its  barest  among  children,  who 
often  reflect  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  are 
like  little  wild  animals  or  infant  savages,  in 
spite  of  all  the  frenzied  idealisation  that  child- 
hood receives  from  well-dressed  and  amiable 
people. 

Shyness    is    thus    like   those    little   bits    of 
woods  and  copses  which  one  finds  in  a  country- 
side that  has  long  been  subdued  and  replen- 
ished, turned  into  arable  land   and   pasture, 
173 


174  At  Large 

with  all  the  wildness  and  the  irregularity 
ploughed  and  combed  out  of  it;  but  still  one 
comes  upon  some  piece  of  dingle,  where  there 
is  perhaps  an  awkward  tilt  in  the  ground,  or 
some  ancient  excavation,  or  where  a  stream- 
head  has  cut  out  a  steep  channel,  and  there 
one  finds  a  scrap  of  the  old  forest,  a  rood  or 
two  that  has  never  been  anything  but  wood- 
land. So  with  shyness;  many  of  our  old, 
savage  qualities  have  been  smoothed  out,  or 
glazed  over,  by  education  and  inheritance, 
and  only  emerge  in  moments  of  passion  and 
emotion.  But  shyness  is  no  doubt  the  old  sus- 
picion of  the  stranger,  the  belief  that  his  mo- 
tives are  likely  to  be  predatory  and  sinister; 
it  is  the  tendency  to  bob  the  head  down  into 
the  brushwood,  or  to  sneak  behind  the  tree-bole 
on  his  approach.  One  sees  a  little  child, 
washed  and  brushed  and  delicately  apparelled, 
with  silken  locks  and  clear  complexion,  brought 
into  a  drawing-room  to  be  admired;  one  sees 
the  terror  come  upon  her;  she  knows  by  ex- 
perience that  she  has  nothing  to  expect  but 
attention,  and  admiration,  and  petting;  but 
you  will  see  her  suddenly  cover  her  face  with 
a  tiny  hand,  relapse  into  dismal  silence,  even 


Shyness  1 75 

burst  into  tears  and  refuse  to  be  comforted, 
till  she  is  safely  entrenched  upon  some  famil- 
iar knee. 

I  have  a  breezy,  boisterous,  cheerful  friend, 
of  transparent  simplicity  and  goodness,  who 
has  never  known  the  least  touch  of  shyness 
from  his  cradle,  who  always  says,  if  the  sub- 
ject is  introduced,  that  shyness  is  all  mere 
self-consciousness,  and  that  it  comes  from 
thinking  about  oneself.  That  is  true,  in  a 
limited  degree;  but  the  diagnosis  is  no  remedy 
for  the  disease,  because  shyness  is  as  much 
a  disease  as  a  cold  in  the  head,  and  no  amount 
of  effort  can  prevent  the  attacks  of  the  com- 
plaint; the  only  remedy  is  either  to  avoid  the 
occasions  of  the  attacks — and  that  is  impos- 
sible, unless  one  is  to  abjure  the  society  of 
other  people  for  good  and  all; — or  else  to 
practise  resolutely  the  hardening  process  of 
frequenting  society,  until  one  gets  a  sort  of 
courage  out  of  familiarity.  Yet  even  so,  who 
that  has  ever  really  suffered  from  shyness 
does  not  feel  his  heart  sink  as  he  drives  up  in 
a  brougham  to  the  door  of  some  strange  house, 
and  sees  a  grave  butler  advancing  out  of  an 
unknown  corridor,  with  figures  flitting  to  and 


17^  At  Large 

fro  in  the  background;  what  shy  person  is 
there  who  at  such  a  moment  would  not  give 
a  considerable  sum  to  be  able  to  go  back  to 
the  station  and  take  the  first  train  home? 
Or  who  again,  as  he  gives  his  name  to  a  serv- 
ant in  some  brightly-lighted  hall,  and  ad- 
vances, with  a  hurried  glance  at  his  toilet, 
into  a  roomful  of  well-dressed  people,  buzzing 
with  what  Eossetti  calls  a  "  din  of  doubtful 
talk,"  would  not  prefer  to  sink  into  the  earth 
like  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram,  and  be  reck- 
oned no  more  among  the  living? 

It  is  recorded  in  Tennyson's  Life  that  he 
used  to  recommend  to  a  younger  brother  the 
thought  of  the  stellar  spaces,  swarming  with 
constellations  and  traversed  by  planets  at  in- 
effable distances,  as  a  cure  for  shyness;  and  a 
lady  of  my  acquaintance  used  to  endeavour 
as  a  girl  to  stay  her  failing  heart  on  the 
thought  of  Eternity  at  such  moments.  It  is 
all  in  vain;  at  the  urgent  moment  one  cares 
very  little  about  the  stellar  motions,  or  the 
dim  vistas  of  futurity,  and  very  much  indeed 
about  the  cut  of  one's  coat,  and  the  appear- 
ance of  one's  collar,  and  the  glances  of  one's 
enemies;  the  doctrines  of  the  Church,  and  the 


Shyness  177 

prospects  of  ultimate  salvation,  are  things 
very  light  in  the  scales  in  comparison  with 
the  pressing  necessities  of  the  crisis,  and  the 
desperate  need  to  appear  wholly  unconcerned! 
The  wild  and  fierce  shyness  of  childhood  is 
superseded  in  most  sensitive  people,  as  life 
goes  on,  by  a  very  different  feeling — the  shy- 
ness of  adolescence,  of  which  the  essence,  as 
has  been  well  said,  is  "  a  shamefaced  pride." 
The  shyness  of  early  youth  is  a  thing  which 
springs  from  an  intense  desire  to  delight,  and 
impress,  and  interest  other  people,  from  want- 
ing to  play  a  far  larger  and  brighter  part  in 
the  lives  of  every  one  else  than  any  one  in  the 
world  plays  in  any  one  else's  life.  Who  does 
not  recognise,  with  a  feeling  that  is  half  con- 
tempt and  half  compassion,  the  sight  of  the 
eager  pretentiousness  of  youth,  the  intense 
shame  of  confessing  ignorance  on  any  point, 
the  deep  desire  to  appear  to  have  a  stake  in 
the  world,  and  a  well-defined,  respected  posi- 
tion? I  met  the  other  day  a  young  man,  of 
no  particular  force  or  distinction,  who  was 
standing  in  a  corner  at  a  big  social  gather- 
ing, bursting  with  terror  and  importance  com- 
bined.   He  was  inspired,  I  would  fain  believe, 

xa 


178  At  Large 

by  discerning  a  vague  benevolence  in  my  air 
and  demeanour,  to  fix  his  attention  on  me. 
He  had  been  staying  at  a  house  where  there 
had  been  some  important  guests,  and  by  some 
incredibly  rapid  transition  of  eloquence  he 
was  saying  to  me  in  a  minute  or  two,  "  The 
Commander-in-Chief  said  to  me  the  other 
day,"  and  "  The  Archbishop  pointed  out  to 
me  a  few  days  ago,"  giving,  as  personal  con- 
fidences, scraps  of  conversation  which  he  had 
no  doubt  overheard  as  an  unwelcome  adjunct 
to  a  crowded  smoking-room,  with  the  busy 
and  genial  elders  wondering  when  the  boys 
would  have  the  grace  to  go  to  bed.  My  heart 
bled  for  him  as  I  saw  the  reflection  of  my 
own  pushing  and  pretentious  youth,  and  I 
only  desired  that  the  curse  should  not  fall 
upon  him  which  has  so  often  fallen  upon 
myself,  to  recall  ineffaceably,  with  a 
blush  that  still  mantles  my  cheek  in 
the  silence  and  seclusion  of  my  bedroom, 
in  a  wakeful  hour,  the  thought  of  some  such 
piece  of  transparent  and  ridiculous  self-im- 
portance, shamefully  uttered  by  m3)self,  in  a 
transport  of  ambitious  vanity,  long  years  ago. 
How  out  of  proportion  to  the  offence  is  the 


Shyness  179 

avenging  phantom  of  memory  which  dogs  one 
through  the  years  for  such  stupidities!  I 
remember  that  as  a  youthful  undergraduate  I 
went  to  stay  in  the  house  of  an  old  family 
friend  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Cambridge. 
The  only  other  male  guest  was  a  grim  and 
crusty  don,  sharp  and  trenchant  in  speech, 
and  with  a  determination  to  keep  young  men 
in  their  place.  At  Cambridge  he  would  have 
taken  no  notice  whatever  of  me;  but  there,  on 
alien  ground,  with  some  lurking  impulse  of 
far-off  civility,  he  said  to  me  when  the  ladies 
retired,  "  I  am  going  to  have  a  cigar ;  you 
know  your  way  to  the  smoking-room  ?  "  I  did 
not  myself  smoke  in  those  days,  so  foolish  was 
I  and  innocent;  but  recalling,  I  suppose,  some 
similar  remark  made  by  an  elderly  and  genial 
non-smoker  under  the  same  circumstances,  I 
said  pompously — I  can  hardly  bring  myself 
even  now  to  write  the  words — "  I  don't  smoke, 
but  I  will  come  and  sit  with  you  for  the  plea- 
sure of  a  talk."  He  gave  a  derisive  snort, 
looked  at  me  and  said :  "  What !  not  allowed 
to  smoke  yet?  Pray  don't  trouble  to  come 
on  my  account."  It  was  not  a  genial  speech, 
and  it  made  me  feel,  as  it  was  intended  to  do, 


i8o  At  Large 

insupportably  silly.  I  did  not  make  matters 
better,  I  recollect,  on  the  following  day,  when 
on  returning  to  Cambridge  I  offered  to  carry 
his  bag  up  from  the  station — for  he  insisted 
on  walking.  He  refused  testily,  and  no  doubt 
thought  me,  as  in  fact  I  was,  a  very  spiritless 
young  man. 

I  remember,  too,  another  incident  of  the  same 
kind,  happening  about  the  same  time.  I  was 
invited  by  a  fellow-undergraduate  to  come  to 
tea  in  his  rooms,  and  to  meet  his  people. 
After  tea,  in  the  lightness  of  his  heart,  my 
friend  performed  some  singular  antics,  such 
as  standing  on  his  head  like  a  clown,  and  fall- 
ing over  the  back  of  his  sofa,  alighting  on  his 
feet.  I,  who  would  not  have  executed  such 
gambols  for  the  world  in  the  presence  of  the 
fairer  sex,  but  anxious  in  an  elderly  way  to 
express  my  sympathy  with  the  performer, 
said,  with  what  was  meant  to  be  a  polite  ad- 
miration, "  I  can't  think  how  you  do  that ! " 
Upon  which  a  shrewd  and  trenchant  maiden- 
aunt  who  was  present,  and  was  delighting  in 
the  exuberance  of  her  nephew,  said  to  me 
briskly,  "  Mr.  Benson,  have  you  never  been 
young?"    I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  how; 


Shyness  i8i 

often  since  I  have  arranged  a  neat  repartee 
to  that  annoying  question.  At  the  same  time 
1  think  that  the  behaviour  both  of  the  don  and 
the  aunt  was  distinctly  unjust  and  unadvis- 
able.  I  am  sure  that  the  one  way  to  train 
young  people  out  of  the  miseries  of  shyness 
is  for  older  people  never  to  snub  them  in  pub- 
lic, or  make  them  appear  in  the  light  of  a  fool. 
Such  snubs  fall  plentifully  and  naturally 
from  contemporaries.  An  elder  person  is 
quite  within  his  rights  in  inflicting  a  grave 
and  serious  remonstrance  in  private.  I  do  not 
believe  that  young  people  ever  resent  that,  if 
at  the  same  time  they  are  allowed  to  defend 
themselves  and  state  their  case.  But  a  merci- 
less elder  who  inflicts  a  public  mortification 
is  terribly  unassailable  and  impregnable.  For 
the  shy  person,  who  is  desperately  anxious  to 
bear  a  sympathetic  part,  is  quite  incapable  of 
retort;  and  that  is  why  such  assaults  are 
unpardonable,  because  they  are  the  merest 
bullying. 

The  nicest  people  that  I  have  known  in  life 
have  been  the  people  of  kindly  and  sensible 
natures,  who  have  been  thoroughly  spoilt  as 
children,  encouraged  to  talk,  led  to  expect  not 


1 82  At  Large 

only  toleration,  but  active  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy from  all.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  such 
kindness  is  generally  reserved  for  pretty  and 
engaging  children,  and  it  is  the  awkward,  un- 
pleasing,  ungainly  child  who  gets  the  slaps 
in  public.  But  as  in  Tennyson-Turner's  pretty 
poem  of  Letty's  Globe,  a  child's  hand  should 
be  "  welcome  at  all  frontiers."  Only  delib- 
erate rudeness  and  insolence  on  the  part  of 
children  should  be  publicly  rebuked;  and  as 
a  matter  of  fact  both  rudeness  and  insolence 
are  far  oftener  the  result  of  shyness  than  is 
easily  supposed. 

After  the  shyness  of  adolescence  there  often 
follows  a  further  stage.  The  shy  person  has 
learnt  a  certain  wisdom;  he  becomes  aware 
how  easily  he  detects  pretentiousness  in  other 
people,  and  realises  that  there  is  nothing  to 
be  gained  by  claiming  a  width  of  experience 
which  he  does  not  possess,  and  that  the  being 
unmasked  is  even  more  painful  than  feeling 
deficient  and  ill-equipped.  Then  too  he  learns 
to  suspect  that  when  he  has  tried  to  be  im- 
pressive, he  has  often  only  succeeded  in  being 
priggish;  and  the  result  is  that  he  falls  into 
a  kind  of  speechlessness,  comforting  himself, 


Shyness  183 

as  he  sits  mute  and  awkward,  unduly  elon- 
gated, and  with  unaccountable  projections  of 
limb  and  feature,  that  if  only  other  people 
were  a  little  less  self-absorbed,  had  the  gift  of 
perceiving  hidden  worth  and  real  character, 
and  could  pierce  a  little  below  the  surface, 
they  would  realise  what  reserves  of  force  and 
tenderness  lay  beneath  the  heavy  shapeless- 
ness  of  which  he  is  still  conscious.  Then  is 
the  time  for  the  shy  person  to  apply  himself 
to  social  gymnastics.  He  is  not  required  to 
be  voluble;  but  if  he  will  practise  bearing  a 
hand,  seeing  what  other  people  need  and  like, 
carrying  on  their  line  of  thought,  construct- 
ing small  conversational  bridges,  asking  the 
right  questions,  perhaps  simulating  an  inter- 
est in  the  pursuits  of  others  which  he  does  not 
naturally  feel,  he  may  unloose  the  burden 
from  his  back.  Then  is  the  time  to  practise  a 
sympathetic  smile,  or  better  still  to  allow  one- 
self to  indicate  and  even  express  the  sympa- 
thy one  feels;  and  the  experimentalist  will 
soon  become  aware  how  welcome  such  unob- 
trusive sympathy  is.  He  will  be  amazed  at 
first  to  find  that,  instead  of  being  tolerated, 
he  will  be  confided  in;  he  will  be  regarded  as 


1 84  At  Large 

a  pleasant  adjunct  to  a  party,  and  he  will 
soon  have  the  even  pleasanter  experience  of 
finding  that  his  own  opinions  and  adventures, 
if  they  are  not  used  to  cap  and  surpass  the 
opinions  and  adventures  of  others,  but  to 
elicit  them,  will  be  duly  valued.  Yet,  alas, 
a  good  many  shy  people  never  reach  that  stage, 
but  take  refuge  in  a  critical  and  fastidious 
attitude.  I  had  an  elderly  relative  of  this 
kind — who  does  not  know  the  type? — who  was 
a  man  of  wide  interests  and  accurate  infor- 
mation, but  a  perfect  terror  in  the  domestic 
circle.  He  was  too  shy  to  mingle  in  general 
talk,  but  sat  with  an  air  of  acute  observation, 
with  a  dry  smile  playing  over  his  face;  later 
on,  when  the  circle  diminished,  it  pleased  him 
to  retail  the  incautious  statements  made  by 
various  members  of  the  party,  and  correct' 
them  with  much  acerbity.  There  are  few 
things  more  terrific  than  a  man  who  is  both 
speechless  and  distinguished.  I  have  known 
several  such,  and  their  presence  lies  like  a 
blight  over  the  most  cheerful  party.  It  is 
unhappily  often  the  case  that  shyness  is  apt 
to  exist  side  by  side  with  considerable  ability, 
and  a  shy  man  of  this  type  regards  distinc- 


Shyness  185 

tion  as  a  kind  of  defensive  armour,  which  may 
justify  him  in  applying  to  others  the  contempt 
which  he  has  himself  been  conscious  of  in- 
curring. One  of  the  most  disagreeable  men 
I  know  is  a  man  of  great  ability,  who  was 
bullied  in  his  youth.  The  result  upon  him 
has  been  that  he  tends  to  believe  that  most 
people  are  inspired  by  a  vague  malevolence, 
and  he  uses  his  ability  and  his  memory,  not  to 
add  to  the  pleasure  of  a  party,  but  to  make 
his  own  power  felt.  I  have  seen  this  particu- 
lar man  pass  from  an  ungainly  speechlessness 
into  brutal  onslaughts  on  inofifensive  persons; 
and  it  is  one  of  the  most  unpleasant  trans- 
formations in  the  world.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  modest  and  amiable  man  of  distinction  is 
one  of  the  most  agreeable  figures  it  is  possible 
to  encounter.  He  is  kind  and  deferential,  and 
the  indulgent  deference  of  a  distinguished 
man  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 

I  was  lately  told  a  delightful  story  of  a 
great  statesman  staying  with  a  humble  and 
anxious  host,  who  had  invited  a  party  of  sim- 
ple and  unimportant  people  to  meet  the  great 
man.  The  statesman  came  in  late  for  dinner, 
and  was  introduced  to  the  party;  he  made  a 


i86  At  Large 

series  of  old-fashioned  bows  in  all  directions, 
but  no  one  felt  in  a  position  to  offer  any  ob- 
servations. The  great  man,  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  ceremony,  turned  to  his  host,  and  said, 
in  tones  that  had  often  thrilled  a  listening 
senate :  "  What  very  convenient  jugs  you  have 
in  your  bedrooms !  They  pour  well ! "  The 
social  frost  broke  up;  the  company  were  de- 
lighted to  find  that  the  great  man  was  inter- 
ested in  mundane  matters  of  a  kind  on  which 
ever}'  one  might  be  permitted  to  have  an  opin- 
ion, and  the  conversation,  starting  from  the 
humblest  conveniences  of  daily  life,  melted  in- 
sensibly into  more  liberal  subjects.  The  fact 
is  that,  in  ordinary  life,  kindness  and  sim- 
plicity are  valued  far  more  than  brilliance; 
and  the  best  brilliance  is  that  which  throws 
a  novel  and  lambent  light  upon  ordinary 
topics,  rather  than  the  brilliance  which  dis- 
ports itself  in  unfamiliar  and  exalted  regions. 
The  hero  only  ceases  to  be  a  hero  to  his  valet 
if  he  is  too  lofty-minded  to  enter  into  the 
workings  of  his  valet's  mind,  and  cannot  duly 
appraise  the  quality  of  his  services. 

And  then,  too,  to  go  back  a  little,  there  are 
certain  defects,  after  all,  which  are  appropri- 


Shyness  187 

ate  at  different  times  of  life.  A  certain  de- 
gree of  shyness  and  even  awkwardness  is  not  at 
all  a  disagreeable  thing — indeed  it  is  rather  a 
desirable  quality — in  the  young.  A  perfectly 
self-possessed  and  voluble  young  man  arouses 
in  one  a  vague  sense  of  hostility,  unless  it  is 
accompanied  by  great  modesty  and  ingenu- 
ousness. The  artless  prattler,  who,  in  his 
teens,  has  an  opinion  on  all  subjects, 
and  considers  that  opinion  worth  expressing, 
is  pleasant  enough,  and  saves  one  some 
embarrassment;  but  such  people,  alas,  too 
often  degenerate  into  the  bores  of  later  life. 
If  a  man's  opinion  is  eventually  going  to  be 
worth  anything,  he  ought,  I  think,  to  pass 
through  a  tumultuous  and  even  prickly  stage, 
when  he  believes  that  he  has  an  opinion,  but 
cannot  find  the  aplomb  to  formulate  it.  He 
ought  to  be  feeling  his  way,  to  be  in  a  vague 
condition  of  revolt  against  what  is  conven- 
tional. This  is  likely  to  be  true  not  only 
in  his  dealings  with  his  elders,  but  also  in 
his  dealings  with  his  contemporaries.  Young 
people  are  apt  to  regard  a  youthful  doctrin- 
aire, who  has  an  opinion  on  everything,  with 
sincere   abhorrence.     He  bores  them,  and  to 


1 88  At  Large 

the  young  boredom  is  not  a  condition  of  pas- 
sive suffering,  it  is  an  acute  form  of  torture. 
Moreover,  the  stock  of  opinions  which  a  young 
man  holds  are  apt  to  be  parrot-cries  repeated 
without  any  coherence  from  talks  overheard 
and  books  skimmed.  But  in  a  modest  and 
ingenuous  youth,  filled  to  the  brim  with  eager 
interest  and  alert  curiosity,  a  certain  defer- 
ence is  an  adorable  thing,  one  of  the  most  deli- 
cate of  graces;  and  it  is  a  delightful  task  for 
an  older  person,  who  feels  the  sense  of  youth- 
ful charm,  to  melt  stiffness  away  by  kindly 
irony  and  gentle  provocation,  as  Socrates  did 
with  his  sweet-natured  and  modest  boy- 
friends, so  many  centuries  ago. 

The  aplorrih  of  the  young  generally  means 
complacency;  but  one  who  is  young  and  shy, 
and  yet  has  the  grace  to  think  about  the  con- 
venience and  pleasure  of  others,  can  be  the 
most  perfect  companion  in  the  world.  One 
has  then  a  sense  of  the  brave  and  unsophisti- 
cated freshness  of  youth,  that  believes  all 
things  and  hopes  all  things,  the  bloom  of 
which  has  not  been  rubbed  away  by  the  rough 
touch  of  the  world.  It  is  only  when  that  shy- 
ness   is    prolonged    beyond    the    appropriate 


Shyness  189 

years,  when  it  leaves  a  well-grown  and  hard- 
featured  man  gasping  and  incoherent,  jerky 
and  ungracious,  that  it  is  a  painful  and  dis- 
concerting deformity.  The  only  real  shadow 
of  early  shyness  is  the  quite  disproportion- 
ate amount  of  unhappiness  that  conscious 
gaucherie  brings  with  it.  Two  incidents  con- 
nected with  a  ceremony  most  fruitful  in  nerv- 
ousness come  back  to  my  mind. 

When  I  was  an  Eton  boy,  I  was  staying 
with  a  country  squire,  a  most  courteous  old 
gentleman  with  a  high  temper.  The  first 
morning,  I  contrived  to  come  down  a  minute 
or  two  late  for  prayers.  There  was  no  chair 
for  me.  The  squire  suspended  his  reading 
of  the  Bible  with  a  deadly  sort  of  resigna- 
tion, and  made  a  gesture  to  the  portly  butler. 
That  functionary  rose  from  his  own  chair, 
and  with  loudly  creaking  boots  carried  it 
across  the  room  for  my  acceptance.  I  sat 
down,  covered  with  confusion.  The  butler 
returned;  and  two  footmen,  who  were  sitting 
on  a  little  form,  made  reluctant  room  for  him. 
The  butler  sat  down  on  one  end  of  the  form, 
unfortunately  before  his  equipoise,  the  second 
footman,  had  taken  his  place  at  the  other  end. 


iQo  At  Large 

The  result  was  that  the  form  tipped  up,  and 
a  cataract  of  flunkies  poured  down  upon  the 
floor.  There  was  a  ghastly  silence;  then  the 
Gadarene  herd  slowly  recovered  itself,  and  re- 
sumed its  place.  The  squire  read  the  chap- 
ter in  an  accent  of  suppressed  fury,  while  the 
remainder  of  the  party,  with  handkerchiefs 
pressed  to  their  faces,  made  the  most  unac- 
countable sounds  and  motions  for  the  rest  of 
the  proceeding.  I  was  really  comparatively 
guiltless,  but  the  shadow  of  that  horrid  event 
sensibly  clouded  the  whole  of  my  visit. 

I  was  only  a  spectator  of  the  other  event. 
We  had  assembled  for  prayers  in  the  dimly- 
lighted  hall  of  the  house  of  a  church  digni- 
tary, and  the  chapter  had  begun,  when  a  man 
of  almost  murderous  shyness,  who  was  a 
guest,  opened  his  bedroom  door  and  came  down 
the  stairs.  Our  host  suspended  his  reading. 
The  unhappy  man  came  down,  but,  instead 
of  slinking  to  his  place,  went  and  stood  in 
front  of  the  fire,  under  the  impression  that 
the  proceedings  had  not  taken  shape,  and  ad- 
dressed some  remarks  upon  the  weather  to 
his  hostess.  In  the  middle  of  one  of  his  sen- 
tences, he  suddenly  divined  the  situation,  on 


Shyness  191 

seeing  the  row  of  servants  sitting  in  a  thievish 
corner  of  the  hall.  He  took  his  seat  with  the 
air  of  a  man  driving  to  the  guillotine,  and  I 
do  not  think  I  ever  saw  any  one  so  much  upset 
as  he  was  for  the  remainder  of  his  stay.  Of 
course  it  may  be  said  that  a  sense  of  humour 
should  have  saved  a  man  from  such  a  collapse 
of  moral  force,  but  a  sense  of  humour  re- 
quires to  be  very  strong  to  save  a  man  from 
the  sense  of  having  made  a  conspicuous  fool 
of  himself. 

I  would  add  one  more  small  reminiscence,  of 
an  event  from  which  I  can  hardly  say  with 
honesty  that  I  have  yet  quite  recovered, 
although  it  took  place  nearly  thirty  years  ago. 
I  went,  as  a  schoolboy,  with  my  parents,  to 
stay  at  a  very  big  country  house,  the  kind 
of  place  to  which  I  was  little  used,  where  the 
advent  of  a  stately  footman  to  take  away  my 
clothes  in  the  morning  used  to  fill  me  with 
misery.  The  first  evening  there  was  a  big 
dinner-party.  I  found  myself  sitting  next  my 
delightful  and  kindly  hostess,  my  father  be- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  her.  All  went  well 
till  dessert,  when  an  amiable,  long-haired 
spaniel  came  to  my  side  to  beg  of  me.    I  had 


192  At  Large 

nothing  but  grapes  on  my  plate,  and  purely 
out  of  compliment  I  offered  him  one.  He  at 
once  took  it  in  his  mouth,  and  hurried  to  a 
fine  white  fur  rug  in  front  of  the  hearth,  where 
ho  indulged  in  some  unaccountable  convul- 
sions, rolling  himself  about  and  growling  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight.  My  host,  an  irascible 
man,  looked  round,  and  then  said :  "  Who  the 
devil  has  given  that  dog  a  grape?  "  He  added 
to  my  father,  by  way  of  explanation,  "  The 
fact  is  that  if  he  can  get  hold  of  a  grape,  he 
rolls  it  on  that  rug,  and  it  is  no  end  of  a  nui- 
sance to  get  the  stain  out."  I  sat  crimson 
with  guilt,  and  was  just  about  to  falter  out  a 
confession,  when  my  hostess  looked  up,  and, 
seeing  what  had  happened,  said,  "  It  was  I, 
Frank;  I  forgot  for  the  moment  what  I  was 
doing."  My  gratitude  for  this  angelic  inter- 
vention was  so  great  that  I  had  not  even  the 
gallantry  to  own  up,  and  could  only  repay 
my  protectress  with  an  intense  and  lasting 
devotion.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  explained 
matters  afterwards  to  our  host;  and  I  con- 
trived to  murmur  my  thanks  later  in  the  even- 
ing. But  the  shock  had  been  a  terrible  one, 
and  taught  me  not  only  wisdom,  but  the  Christ- 


Shyness  193 

ian  duty  of  intervening,  if  I   couldj  to  save 
the  shy  from  their  sins  and  sufferings. 

Taught  by  the  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them. 

But  the  consideration  that  emerges  from 
these  reminiscences  is  the  somewhat  bewilder- 
ing one,  that  shyness  is  a  thing  whch  seems 
to  be  punished,  both  by  immediate  discomfort 
and  by  subsequent  fantastic  remorse,  far  more 
heavily  than  infinitely  more  serious  moral 
lapses.  The  repentance  that  follows  sin  can 
hardly  be  more  poignant  than  the  agonising 
sense  of  guilt  which  steals  over  the  waking 
consciousness  on  the  morning  that  follows 
some  such  social  lapse.  In  fact  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  most  of  us  dislike  appearing  fools 
far  more  than  we  dislike  feeling  knaves; 
so  that  one  wonders  whether  one  does  not 
dread  the  ridicule  and  disapproval  of  society 
more  than  one  dreads  the  sense  of  a  lapse 
from  morality;  the  philosophical  outcome  of 
which  would  seem  to  be  that  the  verdict  of 
society  upon  our  actions  is  at  the  base  of  mo- 
rality.   We  may  feel  assured  that  the  result 

of  moral  lapses  will  ultimately  be  that  we  shall 
13 


194  At  Large 

have  to  face  the  wrath  of  our  Creator;  but 
one  hopes  that  side  by  side  with  justice  will 
be  found  a  merciful  allowance  for  the  force  of 
temptation.  But  the  final  judgment  is  in  any 
case  not  imminent,  while  the  result  of  a  social 
lapse  is  that  we  have  to  continue  to  face  a 
disapproving  and  even  a  contemptuous  circle, 
who  will  remember  our  failure  with  malicious 
pleasure,  and  whose  sense  of  justice  will  not 
be  tempered  by  any  appreciable  degree  of 
mercy.  Here  again  is  a  discouraging  circum- 
stance, that  when  we  call  to  mind  some  simi- 
larly compromising  and  grotesque  adventure 
in  the  life  of  one  of  our  friends,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  we  well  know  the  distress  that  the 
incident  must  have  caused  him,  we  still  con- 
tinue to  hug,  and  even  to  repeat,  our  recol- 
lection of  the  occasion  with  a  rich  sense  of 
joy.  Is  it  that  we  do  not  really  desire  the 
peace  and  joy  of  others?  It  would  seem  so.' 
How  many  of  us  are  not  conscious  of  feeling 
extremely  friendly  and  hopeful  when  our 
friend  is  in  sorrow,  or  difiSculty,  or  discredit, 
and  yet  of  having  no  taste  for  standing  by 
and  applauding  when  our  friend  is  joyful  and 
successful !    There  is  nothing,  it  seems,  that  we 


Shyness  195 

can  render  to  our  friend  in  the  latter  case,  ex- 
cept the  praise  of  which  he  has  already  had 
enough ! 

It  seems  then  that  the  process  of  anatomis- 
ing the  nature  and  philosophy  of  shyness  only 
ends  in  stripping  off,  one  by  one,  as  from  an 
onion,  the  decent  integuments  of  the  human 
spirit,  and  revealing  it  every  moment  more 
and  more  in  its  native  rankness.  Let  me  for- 
bear, consoling  myself  with  the  thought  that 
the  qualities  of  human  beings  aria  not  meant  to 
be  taken  up  one  by  one,  like  coins  from  a  tray, 
and  scrutinised;  but  that  what  matters  is  the 
general  effect,  the  blending,  the  grouping,  the 
mellowed  surface,  the  warped  line.  I  was  only 
yesterday  in  an  old  church,  where  I  saw  an 
ancient  font-cover — a  sort  of  carved  extin- 
guisher— and  some  dark  panels  of  a  rood- 
screen.  They  had  been,  both  cover  and  panels, 
coarsely  and  brightly  painted  and  gilt;  and, 
horrible  to  reflect,  it  flashed  upon  me  that 
they  must  have  once  been  both  glaring  and 
vulgar.  Yet  to-day  the  dim  richness  of  the 
effect,  the  dints,  the  scaling-off  of  the  flakes, 
the  fading  of  the  pigment,  the  dulling  of  the 
gold,  were  incomparable;  and  I  began  to  won- 


196  At  Large 

der  if  perhaps  that  was  not  what  happened 
to  us  in  life;  and  that  though  we  foolishly 
regretted  the  tarnishing  of  the  bright  sur- 
faces of  soul  and  body  with  our  passions  and 
tempers  and  awkwardnesses  and  feeblenesses, 
yet  perhaps  it  was,  after  all,  that  we  were 
taking  on  an  unsuspected  beauty,  and  making 
ourselves  fit,  some  far-off  day,  for  the  Com- 
munion of  Saints! 


IX 

Equality 

IT  is  often  said  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  races 
suffer  from  a  lack  of  ideals,  that  they  do 
not  hold  enough  things  sacred.  But  there  is 
assuredly  one  thing  which  the  most  elemen- 
tary and  barbarous  Anglo-Saxon  holds  sacred, 
beyond  creed  and  Decalogue  and  fair  play  and 
morality,  and  that  is  property.  At  inquests, 
for  instance,  it  may  be  noted  how  often  in- 
quiries are  solicitously  made,  not  whether  the 
deceased  had  religious  diflBculties  or  was  dis- 
appointed in  love,  but  whether  he  had  any 
financial  worries.  We  hold  our  own  property 
to  be  very  sacred  indeed,  and  our  respect  for 
other  men's  rights  in  the  matter  is  based  on 
the  fact  that  we  wish  our  own  rights  to  be 
respected-  If  I  were  asked  what  other  ideals 
were  held  widely  sacred  in  England  and 
America  I  should  find  it  very  difficult  to  reply. 
I  think  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  interest 
197 


198  At  Large 

taken  in  America  in  education  and  culture; 
whereas  in  England  I  do  not  believe  that  there 
is  very  much  interest  taken  in  either;  almost 
the  only  thing  which  is  valued  in  England, 
romantically,  and  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm, 
besides  property,  is  social  distinction;  the  de- 
mocracy in  England  is  sometimes  said  to  be 
indignant  at  the  existence  of  so  much  social 
privilege ;  the  word  "  class  "  is  said  to  be  ab- 
horrent to  the  democrat;  but  the  only  classes 
that  he  detests  are  the  classes  above  him  in  the 
social  scale,  and  the  democrat  is  extremely  in- 
dignant if  he  is  assigned  to  a  social  station 
which  he  considers  to  be  below  his  own.  I 
have  met  democrats  who  despise  and  con- 
temn the  social  tradition  of  the  so-called  upper 
classes,  but  I  have  never  met  a  democrat  who 
is  not  much  more  infuriated  if  it  is  supposed 
that  he  has  not  social  traditions  of  his  own 
vastly  superior  to  the  social  traditions  of  the 
lowest  grade  of  precarious  mendicity.  The 
reason  why  socialism  has  never  had  any  great 
hold  in  England  is  because  equality  is  only  a 
word,  and  in  no  sense  a  real  sentiment  in  Eng- 
land. The  reason  why  members  of  the  lowest 
class  in  England  are  not  as  a  rule  convinced 


Equality  199 

socialists  is  because  their  one  ambition  is  to 
become  members  of  the  middle-class,  and  to 
have  property  of  their  own;  and  while  the 
sense  of  personal  possession  is  so  strong  as  it 
is,  no  socialism  worthy  of  the  name  has  a 
chance.  It  is  possible  for  any  intelligent, 
virtuous,  and  capable  member  of  the  lower 
class  to  transfer  himself  to  the  middle-class; 
and  once  there  he  does  not  favour  any  system 
of  social  equality.  Socialism  can  never  pre- 
vail as  a  political  system,  until  we  get  a  ma- 
jority of  disinterested  men,  who  do  not 
want  to  purchase  freedom  from  daily  work  by 
acquiring  property,  and  who  desire  the  respon- 
sibility rather  than  the  influence  of  ad- 
ministrative oflSce.  But  administrative  office 
is  looked  upon  in  England  as  an  important 
if  indirect  factor  in  acquiring  status  and  per- 
sonal property  for  oneself  and  one's  friends. 
I  am  myself  a  sincere  believer  in  socialism; 
that  is  to  say,  I  do  not  question  the  right  of 
society  to  deprive  me  of  my  private  property 
if  it  chooses  to  do  so.  It  does  choose  to  do  so 
to  a  certain  extent  through  the  medium  of  the 
income-tax.  Such  property  as  I  possess  has, 
I  think  it  as  well  to  state,  been  entirely  ac- 


200  At  Large 

quired  by  my  own  exertions.  I  have  never 
inherited  a  penny,  or  received  any  money  ex- 
cept what  I  have  earned.  I  am  quite  willing 
to  admit  that  my  work  was  more  highly  paid 
than  it  deserved;  but  I  shall  continue  to  cling 
tenaciously  to  it  until  I  am  convinced  that  it 
will  be  applied  for  the  benefit  of  every  one; 
I  should  not  think  it  just  if  it  was  taken  from 
me  for  the  benefit  of  the  idle  and  incompetent ; 
and  I  should  be  reluctant  to  part  with  it  un- 
less I  felt  sure  that  it  would  pass  into  the 
hands  of  those  who  are  as  just-minded  and 
disinterested  as  myself,  and  be  fairly  admin- 
istered. I  should  not  think  it  just  if  it  were 
taken  from  me  by  people  who  intended  to  mis- 
use it,  as  I  have  misused  it,  for  their  own 
personal  gratification. 

It  was  made  a  matter  of  merriment  in  the 
case  of  William  Morris  that  he  preached  the 
doctrines  of  socialism  while  he  was  a  prosper- 
ous manufacturer;  but  I  see  that  he  was  per- 
fectly consistent.  There  is  no  justice,  for 
instance,  about  the  principle  of  disarmament, 
unless  all  nations  loyally  disarm  at  the  same 
time.  A  person  cannot  be  called  upon  to  strip 
himself  of   his   personal   property   for   disin- 


Equality  201 

terested  reasons,  if  he  feels  that  he  is 
surrounded  by  people  who  would  use  the  spoils 
for  their  own  interest.  The  process  must  be 
carried  out  by  a  sincere  majority,  who  may 
then  coerce  the  selfish  minority.  I  have  no 
conception  what  I  should  do  with  my  money 
if  I  determined  that  I  ought  not  to  possess  it. 
It  ought  not  to  be  applied  to  any  public  pur- 
pose, because  under  a  socialist  regime  all 
public  institutions  would  be  supported  by  the 
public,  and  they  ought  not  to  depend  upon 
private  generosity.  Still  less  do  I  think  that 
it  ought  to  be  divided  among  individuals,  be- 
cause, if  they  were  disinterested  persons,  they 
ought  to  refuse  to  accept  it.  The  only  good 
reason  I  should  have  for  disencumbering  myself 
of  my  possessions  would  be  that  I  might  set 
a  good  example  of  the  simple  life,  by  working 
hard  for  a  livelihood,  which  is  exactly  what  I 
do;  and  my  only  misfortune  is  that  my  earn- 
ings and  the  interest  of  my  accumulated  earn- 
ings produce  a  sum  which  is  far  larger  than 
the  average  man  ought  to  possess.  Thus  the 
difficulty  is  a  very  real  one.  Moreover  the  evil 
of  personal  property  is  that  it  tends  to  em- 
phasise   class-distinctions    and    to    give    the 


202  At  Large 

possessors  of  it  a  sense  of  undue  superiority. 
Kow  I  am  democratic  enough  to  maintain  that 
I  have  no  sense  whatever  of  personal  superi- 
ority. I  do  not  allow  my  possession  of 
property  to  give  me  a  life  of  vacuous  amuse- 
ment, for  the  simple  reason  that  my  work 
amuses  me  far  more  than  any  other  form  of 
occupation.  If  it  is  asked  why  I  tend  to  live 
by  preference  among  what  may  be  called 
my  social  equals,  I  reply  that  the  only  people 
one  is  at  ease  with  are  the  people  whose  so- 
cial traditions  are  the  same  as  one's  own,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  one  does  not  then  have 
to  think  about  social  traditions  at  all.  I  do 
not  think  my  social  traditions  are  better  than 
the  social  traditions  of  any  other  stratum  of 
society,  whether  it  be  described  as  above  or 
below  my  own ;  all  I  would  say  is  that  they  are 
different  from  the  social  traditions  of  other 
strata,  and  I  much  prefer  to  live  without  hav- 
ing to  consider  such  matters  at  all.  The 
manners  of  the  upper  middle-class,  to  which 
scientifically  I  belong,  are  different  from  the 
manners  of  the  upper,  lower-middle,  and  lower 
class,  and  I  feel  out  of  my  element  in  the 
upper  class,  just  as  I  feel  out  of  my  element 


Equality  203 

in  the  lower  class.  Of  course  if  I  were  per- 
fectly simple-minded  and  sincere,  this  would 
not  be  so;  but,  as  it  is,  I  am  at  ease  with 
professional  persons  of  my  own  standing;  I 
understand  their  point-of-view  without  any 
need  of  explanation ;  in  any  class  but  my  own, 
I  am  aware  of  the  constant  strain  of  trying 
to  grasp  another  point  of  view;  and  to  speak 
frankly,  it  is  not  worth  the  trouble.  I  do  not 
at  all  desire  to  migrate  out  of  my  own  class, 
and  I  have  never  been  able  to  sympathise  with 
people  who  did.  The  motive  for  doing  so  is 
not  generally  a  good  one,  though  it  is  of  course 
possible  to  conceive  a  high-minded  aristocrat 
who  from  motives  based  upon  our  common 
humanity  might  desire  to  apprehend  the  point 
of  view  of  an  artisan,  or  a  high-minded  artisan 
who  from  the  same  motive  desired  to  apprehend 
the  point  of  view  of  an  earl.  But  one  requires 
to  feel  sure  that  this  is  based  upon  a  strong 
sense  of  charity  and  responsibility,  and  I  can 
only  say  that  I  have  not  found  that  the  desire 
to  migrate  into  a  different  class  is  generally 
based  upon  these  qualities. 

The  question  is,  what  ought  a  man  who  be- 
lieves sincerely  in  the  principle  of  equality  to 


204  At  Large 

do  in  the  matter,  if  he  is  situated  as  I  am 
situated?  What  I  admire  and  desire  in  life 
is  friendly  contact  with  my  fellows,  interest- 
ing work,  leisure  for  following  the  pursuits  I 
enjoy,  such  as  art  and  literature.  I  honestly 
confess  that  I  am  not  interested  in  what  are 
called  Social  Problems,  or  rather  I  am  not  at 
all  interested  in  the  sort  of  people  who  study 
them.  Such  problems  have  hardly  reached 
the  vital  stage;  they  are  in  the  highly  techni- 
cal stage,  and  are  mixed  up  with  such  things 
as  political  economy,  politics,  organisation, 
and  so  forth,  which,  to  be  perfectly  frank,  are 
t(>  me  blighting  and  dreary  objects  of  study. 
I  honour  profoundly  the  people  who  engage  in 
such  pursuits;  but  life  is  not  long  enough  to 
take  up  work,  however  valuable,  from  a  sense 
of  duty,  if  one  realises  one's  own  unfitness  for 
such  labours.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that 
all  classes  cared  equally  for  the  things  which 
I  love.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  talk  frankly 
and  unaffectedly  about  books,  and  interesting 
people,  and  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  ab- 
stract topics  of  a  mild  kind,  with  any  one  I 
happened  to  meet.  But,  as  a  rule,  to  speak 
frankly,  I  find  that  people  of  what  I  must  call 


Equality  205 

the  lower  class  are  not  interested  in  these 
things;  people  in  what  I  will  call  the  upper 
class  are  faintly  interested,  in  a  horrible  and 
condescending  way,  in  them — ^which  is  worse 
than  no  interest  at  all.  A  good  many  people  in 
my  own  class  are  impatient  of  them,  and  think 
of  them  as  harmless  recreations;  I  fall  back 
upon  a  few  like-minded  friends,  with  whom  I 
can  talk  easily  and  unreservedly  of  such 
things,  without  being  thought  priggish  or 
donnish  or  dilettanteish  or  unintelligible. 
The  subjects  in  which  I  find  the  majority  of 
people  interested  are  personal  gossip,  money, 
success,  business,  politics.  I  love  personal 
gossip,  but  that  can  only  be  enjoyed  in  a  cir- 
cle well  acquainted  with  each  other's  faults 
and  foibles;  and  I  do  not  sincerely  care  for 
talking  about  the  other  matters  I  have  men- 
tioned. Hitherto  I  have  always  had  a  certain 
amount  of  educational  responsibility,  and  that 
has  furnished  an  abundance  of  material  for 
pleasant  talk  and  interesting  thoughts;  but 
then  I  have  always  suffered  from  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  failing  of  disliking  responsibility  ex- 
cept in  the  case  of  those  for  whom  one's  efforts 
are  definitely  pledged  on  strict  business  prin- 


2o6  At  Large 

ciples.  I  cannot  deliberately  assume  a  sense 
of  responsibility  towards  people  in  general; 
to  do  that  implies  a  sense  of  the  value  of  one's 
own  influence  and  example,  which  I  have 
never  possessed;  and,  indeed,  I  have  always 
heartily  disliked  the  manifestation  of  it  in 
others.  Indeed,  I  firmly  believe  that  the  best 
and  most  fruitful  part  of  a  man's  influence, 
is  the  influence  of  which  he  is  wholly  uncon- 
scious; and  I  am  quite  sure  that  no  one  who 
has  a  strong  sense  of  responsibility  to  the 
[world  in  general  can  advance  the  cause  of 
equality,  because  such  a  sense  implies  at  all 
events  a  consciousness  of  moral  superiority. 
Moreover,  my  educational  experience  leads  me 
to  believe  that  one  cannot  do  much  to  form 
character.  The  most  one  can  do  is  to  guard 
the  young  against  pernicious  influences,  and 
do  one's  best  to  recommend  one's  own  disin- 
terested enthusiasms.  One  cannot  turn  a  vi- 
olet into  a  rose  by  any  horticultural  efifort; 
one  can  only  see  that  the  violet  or  the  rose  has 
the  best  chance  of  what  is  horribly  called 
eelf-effectuation. 

My  own  belief  is  that  these  great  ideas  like 
Equality  and  Justice  are  things  which,  like 


Equality  207 

poetry,  are  born  and  cannot  be  made.  That 
a  number  of  earnest  people  should  be  think- 
ing about  them  shows  that  they  are  in  the 
air;  but  the  interest  felt  in  them  is  the  sign 
and  not  the  cause  of  their  increase.  I  believe 
that  one  must  go  forwards,  trying  to  avoid 
anything  that  is  consciously  harsh  or  pomp- 
ous or  selfish  or  base,  and  the  great  ideas  will 
take  care  of  themselves. 

The  two  great  obvious  difficulties  which 
seem  to  me  to  lie  at  the  root  of  all  schemes  for 
producing  a  system  of  social  equality  are  first 
the  radical  inequality  of  character,  tempera- 
ment, and  equipment  in  human  beings.  No 
system  can  ever  hope  to  be  a  practical  system 
unless  we  can  eliminate  the  possibility  of 
children  being  born,  some  of  them  perfectly 
qualified  for  life  and  citizenship,  and  others 
hopelessly  disqualified.  If  such  differences 
were  the  result  of  environment  it  would  be  a 
remediable  thing.  But  one  can  have  a  strong, 
vigorous,  naturally  temperate  child  born  and 
brought  up  under  the  meanest  and  most  sor- 
did conditions,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
thoroughly  worthless  and  detestable  person 
may  be  the  child  of  high-minded,  well-educated 


2o8  At  Large 

people,  with  every  social  advantage.  My  work 
as  a  practical  educationalist  enforced  this 
upon  me.  One  would  find  a  boy,  born  under 
circumstances  as  favourable  for  the  produc- 
tion of  virtue  and  energy  as  any  socialistic 
system  could  provide,  who  was  really  only 
fitted  for  the  lowest  kind  of  mechanical  work, 
and  whose  instincts  were  utterly  gross.  Even 
if  the  State  could  practise  a  kind  of  refined 
Mendelism,  it  would  be  impossible  to  guard 
against  the  influences  of  heredity.  If  one 
traces  back  the  hereditary  influences  of  a  child 
for  ten  generations,  it  will  be  found  that  he 
has  upwards  of  two  thousand  progenitors, 
any  one  of  whom  may  give  him  a  bias. 

And  secondly,  I  cannot  see  that  any  system 
of  socialism  is  consistent  with  the  system  of 
the  family.  The  parents  in  a  socialistic  state 
can  only  be  looked  upon  as  brood  stock,  and 
the  nurture  of  the  rising  generation  must  be 
committed  to  some  State  organisation,  if  one 
is  to  secure  an  equality  of  environing  influen- 
ces. Of  course,  this  is  done  to  a  certain  extent 
by  the  boarding-schools  of  the  upper  classes; 
and  here  again  my  experience  has  shown  me 
that  the  system,  though  a  good  one  for  the 


Equality  209 

majority,  is  not  the  best  system  invariably  for 
types  with  marked  originality — the  very  type 
that  one  most  desires  to  propagate. 

These  are,  of  course,  very  crude  and  ele- 
mentary objections  to  the  socialistic  scheme; 
all  that  I  say  is  that  until  these  difiSculties 
seem  more  capable  of  solution,  I  cannot  throw 
myself  with  any  interest  into  the  speculation; 
I  cannot  continue  in  the  path  of  logical  de- 
duction, while  the  postulates  and  axioms 
remain  so  unsound. 

What  then  can  a  man  who  has  resources 
that  he  cannot  wisely  dispose  of,  and  happi- 
ness that  he  cannot  impart  to  others,  but  yet 
who  would  only  too  gladly  share  his  gladness 
with  the  world,  do  to  advance  the  cause  of  the 
general  weal?  Must  he  plunge  into  activities 
for  which  he  has  no  aptitude  or  inclination, 
and  which  have  as  their  aim  objects  for  which 
he  does  not  think  that  the  world  is  ripe? 
Every  one  will  remember  the  figure  of  Mrs. 
Pardiggle  in  Bleak  House,  that  raw-boned  lady 
who  enjoyed  hard  work,  and  did  not  know 
what  it  was  to  be  tired,  who  went  about 
rating  inefficient  people,  and  "  boned "  her 
children's    pocket-money    for    charitable    ob- 


2IO  At  Large 

jects.  It  seems  to  me  that  many  of  the  people 
who  work  at  social  reforms  do  so  because, 
like  Mrs.  Pardiggle,  they  enjoy  hard  work  and 
love  ordering  other  people  about.  In  a  so- 
ciety wisely  and  rationally  organised,  there 
would  be  no  room  for  Mrs.  Pardiggle  at  all; 
the  question  is  whether  things  must  first  pass 
through  the  Pardiggle  stage?  I  do  not  in 
my  heart  believe  it.  Mrs.  Pardiggle  seems  to 
me  to  be  not  part  of  the  cure  of  the  disease, 
but  rather  one  of  the  ugliest  of  its  symptoms. 
I  think  that  she  is  on  the  wrong  tack 
altogether,  and  leading  other  people  astray. 
I  do  know  some  would-be  social  reformers, 
whom  I  respect  and  commiserate  with  all  my 
heart,  who  see  what  is  amiss,  and  have  no  idea 
how  to  mend  it,  and  who  lose  themselves,  like 
Hamlet,  in  a  sort  of  hopeless  melancholy  about 
it  all,  with  a  deep-seated  desire  to  give  others 
a  kind  of  happiness  which  they  ought  to  de- 
sire, but  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  do 
not  desire.  Such  men  are  often  those  upon 
whom  early  youth  broke,  like  a  fresh  wave, 
with  an  incomparable  sense  of  rapture,  in  the 
thought  of  all  the  beauty  and  loveliness  of 
nature  and  art;  and  who  lived  for  a  little  in  a 


Equality  211 

Paradise  of  delicious  experiences  and  fine 
emotions,  believing  that  there  must  be  some 
strange  mistake,  and  that  every  one  must  in 
reality  desire  what  seemed  so  utterly  desir- 
able; and  then,  as  life  went  on,  there  fell  upon 
these  the  shadow  of  the  harsh  facts  of  life ;  the 
knowledge  that  the  majority  of  the  human 
race  had  no  part  or  lot  in  such  visions,  but 
loved  rather  food  and  drink  and  comfort  and 
money  and  rude  mirth;  who  did  not  care  a 
pin  what  happened  to  other  people,  or  how 
frail  and  suffering  beings  spent  their  lives, 
so  long  as  they  themselves  were  healthy  and 
jolly.  Then  that  shadow  deepens  and  thick- 
ens, until  the  sad  dreamers  do  one  of  two 
things — either  immure  themselves  in  a  tiny 
scented  garden  of  their  own,  and  try  to  drown 
the  insistent  noises  without;  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  they  are  of  the  nobler  sort,  lose  heart 
and  hope,  and  even  forfeit  their  own  delight 
in  things  that  are  sweet  and  generous  and 
pleasant  and  pure.  A  mournful  and  inextri- 
cable dilemma! 

Perhaps  one  or  two  of  such  visionaries,  who 
are  made  of  sterner  stuff,  have  deliberately 
embarked,   hopefully   and   courageously,   upon 


212  At  Large 

the  Pardiggle  path;  they  have  tried  absurd 
experiments,  like  Ruskin,  in  road-making  and 
the  formation  of  Guilds;  they  have  taken  to 
journalism  and  committees  like  William  Mor- 
ris. But  they  have  been  baffled.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  such  lives  of  splendid  re- 
nunciation may  not  have  a  deep  moral  effect; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  little  gain  to 
humanity  if  a  richly-endowed  spirit  deserts 
a  piece  of  work  that  he  can  do,  to  toil  un- 
successfully at  a  piece  of  work  that  cannot 
yet  be  done  at  all. 

I  myself  believe  that  when  Society  is  ca- 
pable of  using  property  and  the  better  plea- 
sures, it  will  arise  and  take  them  quietly  and 
firmly:  and  as  for  the  fine  spirits  who  would 
try  to  organise  things  before  they  are  even 
sorted,  well,  they  have  done  a  noble,  ineffect- 
ual thing,  because  they  could  not  do  other- 
wise; and  their  desire  to  mend  what  is  amiss 
is  at  all  events  a  sign  that  the  impulse  is  there, 
that  the  sun  has  brightened  upon  the  peaks 
before  it  could  warm  the  valleys. 

I  was  reading  to-day  The  Irrational  Knot, 
an  early  book  by  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  whom  I 
whole-heartedly   admire   because  of  his   cour- 


Equality  213 

age  and  good-humour  and  energy.  That  book 
represents  a  type  of  the  Kew  Man,  such  as  I 
suppose  Mr.  Shaw  would  have  us  all  to  be; 
the  book,  in  spite  of  its  radiant  wit,  is  a  mel- 
ancholy one,  because  the  novelist  penetrates 
so  clearly  past  the  disguises  of  humanity, 
and  takes  delight  in  dragging  the  mean, 
ugly,  shuddering,  naked  creature  into  the 
oj)en.  The  New  Man  himself  is  entirely 
vigorous,  cheerful,  affectionate,  sensible,  and 
robust.  He  is  afraid  of  nothing  and  shocked 
by  nothing.  I  think  it  would  have  been  better 
if  he  had  been  a  little  more  shocked,  not  in  a 
conventional  way,  but  at  the  hideous  lapses 
and  failures  of  even  generous  and  frank  peo- 
ple. He  is  too  hard  and  confident  to  be  an 
apostle.  He  does  not  lead  the  flock  like  a 
shepherd,  but  helps  them  along,  like  Father- 
o'-Flynn,  with  his  stick.  I  would  have  gone 
to  Conolly,  the  hero  of  the  book,  to  get  me  out 
of  a  difficulty,  but  I  could  not  have  confided 
to  him  what  I  really  held  sacred.  Moreover 
the  view  of  money,  as  the  one  essential  world- 
force,  so  frankly  confessed  in  the  book,  puz- 
zled me.  I  do  not  think  that  money  is  ever 
more  than  a  weapon  in  the  hands  of  a  man, 


214  At  Large 

or  a  convenient  screening  wall,  and  the  New 
Man  ought  to  have  neither  weapons  nor  walls, 
except  his  vigour  and  serenity  of  spirit. 
Again  the  New  Man  is  too  fond  of  saying 
what  he  thinks,  and  doing  what  he  chooses; 
and,  in  the  new  earth,  that  independent  in- 
stinct will  surely  be  tempered  by  a  sense, 
every  bit  as  instinctive,  of  the  rights  of  other 
people.  But  I  suppose  Mr.  Shaw's  point  is 
that  if  you  cannot  mend  the  world,  you  had 
better  make  it  serve  you,  as  in  its  folly  and 
debility  it  will,  if  you  bully  it  enough.  I  sup- 
pose that  Mr.  Shaw  would  say  that  the 
brutality  of  his  hero  is  the  shadow  thrown  on 
him  by  the  vileness  of  the  world,  and  that  if 
we  were  all  alike  courageous  and  industri- 
ous and  good-humoured,  that  shadow  would 
disappear. 

And  this,  I  suppose,  is  after  all  the  secret; 
that  the  world  is  not  going  to  be  mended  from 
without,  but  is  mending  itself  from  within; 
and  thus  that  the  best  kind  of  socialism  is 
really  the  highest  individualism,  in  which  a 
man  leaves  legislation  to  follow  and  express, 
as  it  assuredly  does,  the  growth  of  emotion, 
and  sets  himself,  in  his  own  corner,  to  be  as 


Equality  215 

quiet  and  disinterested  and  kindly  as  he  can, 
choosing  what  is  honest  and  pure,  and  reject- 
ing what  is  base  and  vile;  and  this  is  after 
all  the  socialism  of  Christ;  only  we  are  all  in 
such  a  hurry,  and  think  it  more  effective  to 
clap  a  ruffian  into  gaol  than  to  suffer  his 
violence — the  result  of  which  process  is  to 
make  men  sympathise  with  the  ruffian — 
while,  if  we  endure  his  violence,  we  touch  a 
spring  in  the  hearts  of  ruffian  and  spectators 
alike,  which  is  more  fruitful  of  good  than  the 
criminal's  infuriated  seclusion,  and  his  just 
quarrel  with  the  world.  Of  course  the  real 
way  is  that  we  should  each  of  us  abandon  our 
own  desires  for  private  ease  and  convenience, 
in  the  light  of  the  hope  that  those  who  come 
after  will  be  easier  and  happier;  whereas  the 
Pardiggle  reformer  literally  enjoys  the  pres- 
ence of  the  refuse,  because  his  broom  has 
something  to  sweep  away. 

And  the  strangest  thing  of  all  is  that  we 
move  forward,  in  a  bewildered  company, 
knowing  that  our  every  act  and  word  is  the 
resultant  of  ancient  forces,  not  one  of  which 
we  can  change  or  modify  in  the  least  degree, 
while  we  live  under  the  instinctive  delusion, 


2i6  At  Large 

which  survives  the  severest  logic,  that  we  can 
always  and  at  every  moment  do  to  a  certain 
extent  what  we  choose  to  do.  What  the  truth 
is  that  connects  and  underlies  these  two 
phenomena,  we  have  not  the  least  conception; 
but  meanwhile  each  remains  perfectly  obvious 
and  apparently  true.  To  myself,  the  logical 
belief  is  infinitely  the  more  hopeful  and  sus- 
taining of  the  two;  for  if  the  movement  of 
progress  is  in  the  hands  of  God,  we  are  at  all 
events  taking  our  mysterious  and  wonderful 
part  in  a  great  dream  that  is  being  evolved, 
far  more  vast  and  amazing  than  we  can  com- 
prehend; whereas  if  I  felt  that  it  was  left  to 
ourselves  to  choose,  and  that,  hampered  as 
we  feel  ourselves  to  be  by  innumerable  chains 
of  circumstance,  we  could  yet  indeed  originate 
action  and  impede  the  underlying  Will,  I 
should  relapse  into  despair  before  a  problem 
full  of  sickening  complexities  and  admitted 
failures.  Meanwhile,  I  do  what  I  am  given 
to  do;  I  perceive  what  I  am  allowed  to  per- 
ceive ;  I  suffer  what  is  appointed  for  me  to 
suffer;  but  all  with  a  hope  that  I  may  yet  see 
the  dawn  break  upon  the  sunlit  sea,  beyond 
the  dark  hills  of  time. 


The  Dramatic  Sense 

THE  other  day  I  was  walking  along  a  road 
at  Cambridge,  engulfed  in  a  torrent  of 
cloth-capped  and  coated  young  men  all  flow- 
ing one  way — going  to  see  or,  as  it  is  now 
called,  to  "  watch  "  a  match.  We  met  a  little 
girl  walking  with  her  governess  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  There  was  a  baleful  light  of 
intellect  in  the  child's  eye,  and  a  preponder- 
ance of  forehead  combined  with  a  certain 
lankness  of  hair  betrayed,  I  fancy,  an  ingenu- 
ous academical  origin.  The  girl  was  looking 
round  her  with  an  unholy  sense  of  superior- 
ity, and  as  we  passed  she  said  to  her  governess 
in  a  clear-cut,  complacent  tone,  "  We  're  quite 
exceptional,  aren't  we?"  To  which  the 
governess  replied  briskly,  "  Laura,  don't  be 
ridiculous ! "  To  which  exhortation  Laura 
replied  with  self-satisfied  pertinacity,  "  No, 
but  we  are  exceptional,  aren't  we?" 
317 


2i8  At  Large 

Ah,  Miss  Laura,  I  thought  to  myself,  you 
are  one  of  those  people  with  a  dramatic  sense 
of  your  own  importance.  It  will  probably 
make  you  a  very  happy,  and  an  absolutely  in- 
sufferable person!  I  have  little  doubt  that 
the  tiny  prig  was  saying  to  herself,  "  I  dare- 
say that  all  these  men  are  wondering  who  is 
the  clever-looking  little  girl  who  is  walking 
in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  match,  and 
has  probably  something  better  to  do  than 
look  on  at  matches."  It  is  a  great  question 
whether  one  ought  to  wish  people  to  nourish 
illusions  about  themselves,  or  whether  one 
ought  to  desire  such  illusions  to  be  dispelled. 
They  certainly  add  immensely  to  people's  hap- 
piness, but  on  the  other  hand,  if  life  is  an 
educative  progress,  and  if  the  aim  of  human 
beings  is  or  ought  to  be  the  attainment  of 
moral  perfection,  then  the  sooner  that  these 
illusions  are  dispelled  the  better.  It  is  one  of 
the  many  questions  which  depend  upon  the 
great  fact  as  to  whether  our  identity  is 
prolonged  after  death.  If  identity  is  not  pro- 
longed, then  one  would  wish  people  to  main- 
tain every  illusion  which  makes  life  happier; 
and  there  is  certainly  no  illusion  which  brings 


The  Dramatic  Sense         219 

people  such  supreme  and  unfailing  content- 
ment as  the  sense  of  their  own  significance  in 
the  world.  This  illusion  rises  superior  to  all 
failures  and  disappointments.  It  makes  the 
smallest  and  simplest  act  seem  momentous. 
The  world  for  such  persons  is  merely  a  theatre 
of  gazers  in  which  they  discharge  their  part 
appropriately  and  successfully.  I  know  sev- 
eral people  who  have  the  sense  very  strongly^ 
who  are  conscious  from  morning  to  night,  in 
all  that  they  do  or  say,  of  an  admiring  audi- 
ence; and  who,  even  if  their  circle  is  wholly 
indifferent,  find  food  for  delight  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  how  skilfully  and  satisfactorily 
they  discharge  their  duties.  I  remember  once 
hearing  a  worthy  clergyman,  of  no  particular 
force,  begin  a  speech  at  a  missionary  meeting 
by  saying  that  people  had  often  asked  him 
what  was  the  secret  of  his  smile;  and  that  he 
had  always  replied  that  he  was  unaware  that 
his  smile  had  any  special  quality;  but  that  if 
it  indeed  was  so — and  it  would  be  idle  to  pre- 
tend that  a  good  many  people  had  not  noticed 
it — it  was  that  he  imported  a  resolute  cheer- 
fulness into  all  that  he  did.  The  man,  as  I 
have  said,  was  not  in  any  way  distinguished. 


220  At  Large 

but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  thought  of 
his  heavenly  smile  was  a  very  sustaining  one, 
and  that  the  sense  of  responsibility  that  the 
possession  of  such  a  characteristic  gave  him, 
undoubtedly  made  him  endeavour  to  smile  like 
the  Cheshire  Cat,  when  he  did  not  feel  par- 
ticularly cheerful. 

It  is  not,  however,  common  to  find  people 
make  such  a  frank  and  candid  confession  of 
their  superiority.  The  feeling  is  generally 
kept  for  more  or  less  private  consumption. 
The  underlying  self-satisfaction  generally 
manifests  itself,  for  instance,  with  people  who 
have  no  real  illusions,  say,  about  their  per- 
sonal api)earance,  in  leading  them  to  feel,  after 
a  chance  glance  at  themselves  in  a  mirror, 
that  they  really  do  not  look  so  bad  in  certain 
lights.  A  dull  preacher  will  repeat  to  him- 
self, with  a  private  relish,  a  sentence  out  of  a 
very  commonplace  discourse  of  his  own,  and 
think  that  that  was  really  an  original  thought, 
and  that  he  gave  it  an  impressive  emphasis; 
or  a  student  will  make  a  very  unimportant 
discovery,  press  it  upon  the  attention  of  some 
great  authority  on  the  subject,  extort  a  half- 
hearted assent,  and  will  then  go  about  saying. 


The  Dramatic  Sense         221 

"  I    mentioned    my    discovery    to    Professor 

A ;   he  was  quite  excited  about  it,  and 

urged  the  immediate  publication  of  it."  Or 
a  commonplace  woman  will  give  a  tea-party, 
and  plume  herself  upon  the  eclat  with  which 
it  went  off.  The  materials  are  ready  to  hand 
in  any  life;  the  quality  is  not  the  same  as 
priggishness,  though  it  is  closely  akin  to  it; 
it  no  doubt  exists  in  the  minds  of  many  really 
successful  people,  and  if  it  is  not  iBiagrantly 
betrayed,  it  is  often  an  important  constituent 
of  their  success.  '  But  the  happy  part  of  it  is 
that  the  dramatic  sense  is  often  freely  be- 
stowed upon  the  most  inconspicuous  and  un- 
intelligent persons,  and  fills  their  lives  with  a 
consciousness  of  romance  and  joy.  It  con- 
cerns itself  mostly  with  public  appearances, 
upon  however  minute  a  scale,  and  thus  it  is 
a  rich  source  of  consolation  and  self -congratu- 
lation. Even  if  it  falls  upon  one  who  has  no 
social  gifts  whatever,  whose  circle  of  friends 
tends  to  diminish  as  life  goes  on,  whose  in- 
vitations tend  to  decrease,  it  still  frequently 
survives  in  a  consciousness  of  being  pro- 
foundly interesting,  and  consoles  itself  by 
believing   that   under   different   circumstances 


222  At  Large 

and   in   a   more   perceptive   society   the   fact 
would  have  received  a  wider  recognition. 

But,  after  all,  as  with  many  things,  much 
depends  upon  the  way  that  illusions  are  cher- 
ished. When  this  dramatic  sense  is  bestowed 
upon  a  heavy-handed,  imperceptive,  egotisti- 
cal person,  it  becomes  a  terrible  affliction  to 
other  people,  unless  indeed  the  onlooker  pos- 
sesses the  humorous  spectatorial  curiosity; 
when  it  becomes  a  matter  of  delight  to  find 
a  person  behaving  characteristically,  striking 
the  hour  punctually,  and  being,  as  Mr.  Ben- 
net  thought  of  Mr.  Collins,  fully  as  absurd  as 
one  had  hoped.  It  then  becomes  a  pleasure, 
and  not  necessarily  an  unkind  one,  because  it 
gives  the  deepest  satisfaction  to  the  victim, 
to  tickle  the  egotist  as  one  might  tickle  a 
trout,  to  draw  him  on  by  innocent  questions, 
to  induce  him  to  unfold  and  wave  his  flag  high 
in  the  air.  I  had  once  a  worthy  acquaintance 
whose  occasional  visits  were  to  me  a  source  of 
infinite  pleasure — and  I  may  add  that  I  have 
no  doubt  that  they  gave  him  a  pleasure  quite 
as  acute — ^because  he  only  required  the 
simplest  fly  to  be  dropped  on  the  pool,  when 
he  came  heavily  to  the  top  and  swallowed  it. 


The  Dramatic  Sense         223 

I  have  heard  him  deplore  the  vast  size  of  his 
correspondence,  the  endless  claims  made  upon 
him  for  counsel.  I  have  heard  him  say  with 
a  fatuous  smile  that  there  were  literally 
hundreds  of  people  who  day  by  day  brought 
their  pitcher  of  self-pity  to  be  filled  at  his 
pump  of  sympathy:  that  he  wished  he  could 
have  a  little  rest,  but  that  he  supposed  that  it 
was  a  plain  duty  for  him  to  minister  thus  to 
human  needs,  though  it  took  it  out  of  him 
terribly.  I  suppose  that  some  sort  of  experi- 
ence must  have  lain  behind  this  confession,  for 
my  friend  was  a  decidedly  moral  man  and 
would  not  tell  a  deliberate  untruth;  the  only 
difficulty  was  that  I  could  not  conceive  where 
he  kept  his  stores  of  sympathy,  because  I  had 
never  heard  him  speak  of  any  subject  except 
himself,  and  I  suppose  that  his  method  of 
consolation,  if  he  was  consulted,  was  to  relate 
some  striking  instance  out  of  his  own  experi- 
ence in  which  grace  triumphed  over  nature. 

Sometimes,  again,  the  dramatic  sense  takes 
the  form  of  an  exaggerated  self-depreciation. 
I  was  reading  the  other  day  the  life  of  a  very 
devoted  clergyman,  who  said  on  his  death-bed 
to  one  standing  by  him,  "  If  anything  is  done 


224  At  Large 

in  memory  of  me,  let  a  plain  slab  be  placed  on 
my  grave  with  my  initials  and  the  date,  and 
the  words,  '  The  unworthy  priest  of  this  par- 
ish' — that  must  be  all." 

The  man's  modesty  was  absolutely  sincere; 
yet  what  a  strange  confusion  of  modesty  and 
vanity  after  all!  If  the  humility  had  been 
perfectly  unaffected,  he  would  have  felt  that 
the  man  who  really  merited  such  a  description 
deserved  no  memorial  at  all;  or  again,  if  he 
had  had  no  sense  of  credit,  he  would  have  left 
the  choice  of  a  memorial  to  any  who  might 
wish  to  commemorate  him.  If  one  analyses 
the  feeling  underneath  the  words,  it  will  be 
seen  to  consist  of  a  desire  to  be  remembered, 
a  hope  almost  amounting  to  a  belief  that  his 
work  was  worthy  of  commemoration,  coupled 
with  a  sincere  desire  not  to  exaggerate  its 
value.  And  yet  silence  would  have  attested 
his  humility  far  more  effectually  than  any 
calculated  speech! 

The  dramatic  sense  is  not  a  thing  which 
necessarily  increases  as  life  goes  on;  some 
people  have  it  from  the  very  beginning.  I 
have  an  elderly  friend  who  is  engaged  on  a 
very  special   sort  of  scientific  research  of  a 


The  Dramatic  Sense         225 

wholly  unimportant  kind.  He  is  just  as  in- 
capable as  my  sympathetic  friend  of  talking 
about  anything  except  his  own  interests. 
"  You  don't  mind  my  speaking  about  my 
work?"  he  says  with  a  brilliant  smile;  "you 
see  it  means  so  much  to  me."  And  then,  after 
explaining  some  highly  technical  detail,  he 
will  add :  "  Of  course  this  seems  to  you  very 
minute,  but  it  is  work  that  has  got  to  be  done 
by  some  one;  it  is  only  laying  a  little  stone  in 
the  temple  of  science.  Of  course  I  often  feel 
I  should  like  to  spread  my  wings  and  take  a 
wider  flight,  but  I  do  seem  to  have  a  special 
faculty  for  this  kind  of  work,  and  I  suppose 
it  is  my  duty  to  stick  to  it."  And  he  will  pass 
his  hand  wearily  over  his  brow,  and  expound 
another  technical  detail.  He  apologises  cease- 
lessly for  dwelling  on  his  own  work;  but 
in  no  place  or  company  have  I  ever  heard  him 
do  otherwise;  and  he  is  certainly  one  of  the 
happiest  people  I  know. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  rather  charm- 
ing quality  to  find  in  combination  with  a 
certain  balance  of  mind.  Unless  a  man  is 
interesting  to  himself  he  cannot  easily  be  in- 
teresting to  others;  there  is  a  youthful   and 

IS 


226  At  Large 


ingenuous  sense  of  romance  and  drama  which 
can  exist  side  by  side  with  both  modesty  and 
sympathy,  somewhat  akin  to  the  habit  common 
to  imaginative  children  of  telling  themselves 
long  stories  in  which  they  are  the  heroes  of 
the  tale.    But  people  who  have  this  faculty 
are  generally  mildly  ashamed  of  it;  they  do 
not  believe  that  their  fantastic  adventures  are 
likely  to  happen.    They  only  think  how  pleas- 
ant it  would  be  if  things  arranged  themselves 
so.    It  all  depends   whether  such  dramatisa- 
tion   is    looked    upon    in    the    light    of    an 
amusement,  or  whether  it  is  applied  in  a  heavy- 
handed    manner    to    real    life.      Imaginative 
children,  who  have  true  sympathy  and  affec- 
tion as  well,  generally  end  by  finding  the  real 
world,  as  they  grow  up  into  it,  such  an  aston- 
ishing and  interesting  place,  that  their  hori- 
zon extends,  and  they  apply  to  other  people, 
to  their  relationships  and  meetings,  the  zest 
and  interest  that  they  formerly  applied  only 
to  themselves.    The  kind  of  temperament  that 
falls  a  helpless  victim  to  dramatic  egotism  is 
generally  the  priggish  and  self-satisfied  man, 
who  has  a  fervent  belief  in  his  own  influence, 
and    the    duty    of    exercising    it    on    others. 


The  Dramatic  Sense         227 

Most  of  uSj  one  may  say  gratefully,  are  kept 
humble  by  our  failures  and  even  by  our  sins. 
If  the  path  of  the  transgressor  is  hard,  the 
path  of  the  righteous  man  is  often  harder.  If 
a  man  is  born  free  from  grosser  temptations, 
vigorous,  active,  robust,  the  chances  are  ten  to 
one  that  he  falls  into  the  snare  of  self -right- 
eousness and  moral  complacency.  He  passes 
judgment  on  others,  he  compares  himself 
favourably  with  them.  A  spice  of  unpopular- 
ity gives  him  a  still  more  fatal  bias,  because 
he  thinks  that  he  is  persecuted  for  his  good- 
ness, when  he  is  only  disliked  for  his  superi- 
iority.  He  becomes  content  to  warn  people, 
and  if  they  reject  his  advice  and  get  into  dif- 
ficulties, he  is  not  wholly  ill-pleased.  Whereas 
the  diffident  person  who  tremblingly  assumes 
the  responsibility  for  someone  else's  life,  is 
beset  by  miserable  regrets  if  his  penitent  es- 
capes him,  and  attributes  it  to  his  own  mis- 
management. The  truth  is  that  moral 
indignation  is  a  luxury  that  very  few  people 
can  afford  to  indulge  in.  And  if  it  is  true  that 
a  rich  man  can  with  difficulty  enter  the  king- 
dom of  heaven,  it  is  also  true  that  the  dramatic 
man   finds  it  still  more  difficult.      He  is  im- 


228  At  Large 

pervious  to  criticism,  because  he  bears  it  with 
meekness.  He  has  so  good  a  conscience  that 
he  cannot  believe  himself  in  the  wrong.  If  he 
makes  an  egregious  blunder,  he  says  to  him- 
self with  infinite  solemnity  that  it  is  right 
that  his  self-satisfaction  should  be  tenderly 
purged  away,  and  glories  in  his  own  humility. 
A  far  wholesomer  frame  of  mind  is  that  of 
the  philosopher  who  said,  when  complimented 
on  the  mellowness  that  advancing  years  had 
brought  him,  that  he  still  reserved  to  himself 
the  right  of  damning  things  in  general.  Be- 
cause the  truth  is  that  the  things  which  really 
discipline  us  are  the  painful,  dreary,  intoler- 
able things  of  life,  the  results  of  one's  own 
meanness,  stupidity,  and  weakness,  or  the 
black  catastrophes  which  sometimes  over- 
whelm us,  and  not  the  things  which  we  piously 
and  cheerfully  accept  as  ministering  to  our 
consciousness  of  worth  and  virtue. 

If  I  say  that  the  dramatic  failing  is  apt  to 
be  more  common  among  the  clergy  than  among 
ordinary  mortals,  it  is  because  the  clerical 
vocation  is  one  that  tempts  men  who  have  this 
temperament  strongly  developed  to  enter  it, 
and  afterwards  provides  a  good  deal  of  sus- 


The  Dramatic  Sense         229 

tenance  to  the  particular  form  of  vanity  that 
lies  behind  the  temptation.  The  dramatic 
sense  loves  public  appearances  and  trappings, 
processions  and  ceremonies.  The  instinctive 
dramatist,  who  is  also  a  clergyman,  tends  to 
think  of  himself  as  moving  to  his  place  in  the 
sanctuary  in  a  solemn  progress,  with  a  worn 
spiritual  aspect,  robed  as  a  son  of  Aaron. 
He  likes  to  picture  himself  as  standing  in  the 
pulpit  pale  with  emotion,  his  eye  gathering 
fire  as  he  bears  witness  to  the  truth  or  testi- 
fies against  sin.  He  likes  to  believe  that  his 
words  and  intonations  have  a  thrilling  quality, 
a  fire  or  a  delicacy,  as  the  case  may  be,  which 
scorch  or  penetrate  the  sin-burdened  heart. 
It  may  be  thought  that  this  criticism  is  un- 
duly severe;  I  do  not  for  a  moment  say  that 
the  attitude  is  universal,  but  it  is  commoner, 
I  am  sure,  than  one  would  like  to  believe;  and 
neither  do  I  say  that  it  is  inconsistent  with 
deep  earnestness  and  vital  seriousness.  I 
would  go  further,  and  maintain  that  such  a 
dramatic  consciousness  is  a  valuable  quality 
for  men  who  have  to  sustain  at  all  a  spectacu- 
lar part.  It  very  often  lends  impressiveness 
to  a  man,  and  convinces  those  who  hear  and 


230  At  Large 

see  him  of  his  sincerity;  while  a  man  who 
thinks  nothing  of  appearances  often  fails  to' 
convince  his  audience  that  he  cares  more  for 
his  message  than  for  the  fact  that  he  is  the 
mouthpiece  of  it.  I  find  it  very  diflQcult  to 
say  whether  it  is  well  for  people  who  cherish 
such  illusions  about  their  personal  impressive- 
ness  to  get  rid  of  such  illusions,  when  per- 
sonal impressiveness  is  a  real  factor  in  their 
success.  To  do  a  thing  really  well  it  is  essen- 
tial to  have  a  substantial  confidence  in  one's 
aptitude  for  the  task.  And  undoubtedly  dif- 
fidence and  humilityj  however  sincere,  are  a 
bad  outfit  for  a  man  in  a  public  position.  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  self-confidence,  and 
a  certain  degree  of  self-satisfaction,  are  valu- 
able assets,  so  long  as  a  man  believes  primarily 
in  the  importance  of  what  he  has  to  say  and 
do,  and  only  secondarily  in  his  own  power  of, 
and  fitness  for,  saying  and  doing  it. 

There  is  an  interesting  story — I  do  not 
vouch  for  the  truth  of  it — that  used  to  be  told 
of  Cardinal  Manning,  who  undoubtedly  had 
a  strong  sense  of  dramatic  effect.  He  was 
putting  on  his  robes  one  evening  in  the  sacristy 
of    the    cathedral    at    Westminster,    when    a 


The  Dramatic  Sense         231 

noise  was  heard  at  the  door,  as  of  one  who  was 
determined  on  forcing  an  entrance  in  spite  of 
the  remonstrances  of  the  attendants.  In  a 
moment  a  big,  strongly-built  person,  looking 
like  a  prosperous  man  of  business,  labouring 
under  a  vehement  and  passionate  emotion, 
came  quickly  in,  looked  about  him,  and  ad- 
vancing to  Manning,  poured  out  a  series  of  in- 
dignant reproaches.  "  You  have  got  hold  of 
my  boy,"  he  said,  "  with  your  hypocritical  and 
sneaking  methods;  you  have  made  him  a  Ro- 
man Catholic;  you  have  ruined  the  happiness 
and  peace  of  our  home;  you  have  broken  his 
mother's  heart,  and  overwhelmed  us  in  mis- 
ery." He  went  on  in  this  strain  at  some 
length.  Manning,  who  was  standing  in  his 
cassock,  drew  himself  up  in  an  attitude  of 
majestic  dignity,  and  waited  until  the  in- 
truder's eloquence  had  exhausted  itself,  and 
had  ended  with  threatening  gestures.  Some  of 
those  present  would  have  intervened,  but  Man- 
ning with  an  air  of  command  waved  them  back, 
and  then,  pointing  his  hand  at  the  man,  he 
said :  "  Now,  sir,  I  have  allowed  you  to  have 
your  say,  and  you  shall  hear  me  in  reply.  You 
have  traduced  Holy  Church,  you  have  broken 


232  At  Large 

in  upon  the  Sanctuary,  you  have  uttered  vile 
and  abominable  slanders  against  the  Faith; 
and  I  tell  you,"  he  added,  pausing  for  an  in- 
stant with  flashing  eyes  and  marble  visage, 
'•  I  tell  you  that  within  three  months  you  will 
be  a  Catholic  yourself."  He  then  turned 
sharply  on  his  heel  and  went  on  with  his  pre- 
parations. The  man  was  utterly  discomfited; 
he  made  as  though  he  would  speak,  but  was 
unable  to  find  words;  he  looked  round,  and 
eventually  slunk  out  of  the  sacristy  in  silence. 

One  of  those  present  ventured  to  ask  Man- 
ning afterwards  about  the  strange  scene. 
"  Had  the  Cardinal,"  he  inquired,  "  any  sud- 
den premonition  that  the  man  himself  would 
adopt  the  Faith  in  so  short  a  time?"  Man- 
ning smiled  indulgently,  putting  his  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder,  and  said :  "  Ah,  my  dear 
friend,  who  shall  say?  You  see,  it  was  a  very 
awkward  moment,  and  I  had  to  deal  with  the 
situation  as  I  best  could." 

That  was  an  instance  of  supreme  presence 
of  mind  and  great  dramatic  force;  but  one  is 
not  sure  whether  it  was  a  wholly  apostolical 
method  of  handling  the  position. 
'    But  to  transfer  the  question  from  the  eccle- 


The  Dramatic  Sense         233 

siastical  region  into  the  region  of  common  life, 
it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  if  a  man  or  a  wo- 
man has  a  strong  sense  of  moral  issues,  a  deep 
feeling  of  responsibility  and  sympathy,  an 
anxious  desire  to  help  things  forward,  then  a 
dramatic  sense  of  the  value  of  manner,  speech, 
gesture,  and  demeanour  is  a  highly  effective 
instrument.  It  is  often  said  that  people  who 
wield  a  great  personal  influence  have  the  gift 
of  making  the  individual  with  whom  they  are 
dealing  feel  that  his  case  is  the  most  interest- 
ing and  important  with  which  they  have  ever 
come  in  contact,  and  of  inspiring  and  main- 
taining a  special  kind  of  relationship  between 
themselves  and  their  petitioner.  That  is  no 
doubt  a  very  encouraging  thing  for  the  appli- 
cant to  feel,  even  though  he  is  sensible  enough 
to  realise  that  his  case  is  only  one  among 
many  with  which  his  adviser  is  dealing,  and 
probably  not  the  most  significant.  Upon  such 
a  quality  as  this  the  success  of  statesmen, 
lawyers,  physicians,  largely  depends.  But 
where  the  dramatic  sense  is  combined  with 
egotism,  selfishness,  and  indifference  to  the 
claims  of  others,  it  is  a  terrible  inheritance. 
It  ministers,  as  I  have  said  before,  to  its  pos- 


234  At  Large 

sessor's  self-satisfaction;  but  on  the  other 
hand  it  is  a  failing  which  goes  so  deep  and 
which  permeates  so  intimately  the  whole 
moral  nature,  that  its  cure  is  almost  impos- 
sible without  the  gift  of  what  the  Scripture 
calls  "  a  new  heart."  Such  self-complacency- 
is  a  fearful  shield  against  criticism,  and  par- 
ticularly so  because  it  gives  as  a  rule  so  few 
opportunities  for  any  outside  person,  however 
intimate,  to  expose  the  obliquity  of  such  a 
temperament.  The  dramatic  egotist  is  care- 
ful as  a  rule  not  to  let  his  egotism  appear, 
but  to  profess  to  be,  and  even  to  believe  that 
he  is,  guided  by  the  highest  motives  in  all 
his  actions  and  words.  A  candid  remon- 
strance is  met  by  a  calm  tolerance,  and  by  the 
reply  that  the  critic  does  not  understand  the 
situation,  and  is  trying  to  hinder  rather 
than  to  help  the  development  of  beneficent 
designs. 

I  used  to  know  a  man  of  this  type,  who  was 
insatiably  greedy  of  influence  and  recognition. 
It  is  true  that  he  was  ready  to  help  other  peo- 
ple with  money  or  advice.  He  was  wealthy, 
and  of  a  good  position;  and  he  would  take  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  to  obtain  appointments 


The  Dramatic  Sense         235 

for  friends  who  appealed  to  him,  or  to  unravel 
a  difficult  situation;  though  the  object  of  his 
diligence  was  not  to  help  his  applicants,  but 
to  obtain  credit  and  power  for  himself.  He 
did  not  desire  that  they  should  be  helped,  but 
that  they  should  depend  upon  him  for  help. 
Nothing  could  undeceive  him  as  to  his  own 
motive,  because  he  gave  his  time  and  his 
money  freely;  yet  the  result  was  that  most  of 
the  people  whom  he  helped  tended  to  resent 
it  in  the  end,  because  he  demanded  services  in 
return,  and  was  jealous  of  any  other  interfer- 
ence. Chateaubriand  says  that  it  is  not  true 
gratitude  to  wish  to  repay  favours  promptly; 
and  still  less  is  it  true  benevolence  to  wish  to 
retain  a  hold  over  those  whom  one  has 
benefited. 

Sometimes  indeed  the  two  strains  are  al- 
most inextricably  intertwined,  real  and  vital 
sympathy  with  others,  combined  with  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  personal  significance;  and 
then  the  problem  is  an  inconceivably  compli- 
cated one.  For  I  suppose  it  must  be  frankly 
confessed  that  the  basis  of  the  dramatic  sense 
is  not  a  very  wholesome  one;  it  is,  of  course, 
*  a  strong  form  of  individualism.     But  while  it 


236  At  Large 

is  true  that  we  suffer  from  taking  ourselves 
too  seriously,  it  is  also  possible  to  suffer  from 
not  taking  ourselves  seriously  enough.  If 
effectiveness  is  the  end  of  life,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion that  a  strong  sense  of  what  we  like  to 
call  responsibility,  which  is  generally  nothing 
more  than  a  sense  of  one's  own  importance, 
decorously  framed  and  glazed,  is  an  immense 
factor  in  success.  I  myself  cherish  the  heresy 
that  effectiveness  is  very  far  from  being  the 
end  of  life,  and  that  the  only  effectiveness 
that  is  worth  anything  is  unintentional  effec- 
tiveness. I  believe  that  a  man  or  woman  who 
is  humble  and  sincere,  who  loves  and  is  loved, 
is  higher  on  the  steps  of  heaven  than  the 
adroitest  lobbyist;  but  it  may  be  that  the 
world's  criterion  of  what  it  admires  and  re- 
spects is  the  right  one;  and  indeed  it  is  hard 
to  see  how  so  strong  an  instinct  is  implanted 
in  the  human  race,  the  instinct  to  value 
strength  and  success  above  everything,  unless 
it  is  put  there  by  our  Maker.  At  the  same 
time  one  cherishes  the  hope  that  there  is  a 
better  criterion  somewhere,  in  the  Divine 
Mind,  in  the  fruitful  future,  the  criterion  that 
it  is  not  what  a  man  actually  effects  that  mat- 


The  Dramatic  Sense         237 

ters,  but  what  he  makes  of  the  resources  that 
are  given  him  to  work  with. 

The  effectiveness  of  the  dramatic  sense  is 
beyond  question.  One  can  see  a  supreme  in- 
stance of  it  in  the  case  of  the  Christian  Sci- 
ence movement,  in  which  a  woman  of  strong 
personality,  by  lighting  upon  an  idea  latent 
in  a  large  number  of  minds,  an  idea  moreover 
of  real  and  practical  vitality,  and  by  putting 
it  in  a  form  which  has  all  the  definiteness  re- 
quired by  brains  of  a  hazy  and  emotional 
order,  has  contrived  to  effect  an  immense 
amount  of  good,  besides  amassing  a  colossal 
fortune,  and  assuming  almost  Divine  preten- 
sions, without  being  widely  discredited.  The 
human  race  is,  speaking  generally,  so  anxious 
for  any  leading  that  it  can  get,  that  if  a  man 
or  woman  can  persuade  themselves  that  they 
have  a  mission  to  humanity,  and  maintain  a 
pontifical  air,  they  will  generally  be  able  to 
attract  a  band  of  devoted  adherents,  whose 
faith,  rising  superior  to  both  intelligence  and 
common-sense,  will  indorse  almost  any  claim 
that  the  prophet  or  prophetess  likes  to 
advance. 

But  the  danger  for  the  prophet  himself  is 


238  At  Large 

great.  Arrogance,  complacency,  self-confi- 
dencCj  all  the  Pharisaical  vices,  flourish 
briskly  in  such  a  soil.  He  loses  all  sense  of 
proportion,  all  sense  of  dependence.  Instead 
of  being  a  humble  learner  in  a  mysterious 
world,  he  expects  to  find  everything  made  after 
the  pattern  revealed  to  him  in  the  Mount. 
The  good  that  he  does  may  be  permanent  and 
fruitful;  but  in  some  dark  valley  of  humilia- 
tion and  despair  he  will  have  to  learn  that 
God  tolerates  us  and  uses  us;  He  does  not 
need  us.  "  He  delighteth  not  in  any  man's 
legs,"  as  the  Psalmist  said  with  homely  vig- 
our. To  save  others  and  be  oneself  a  castaway 
is  the  terrible  fate  of  which  St.  Paul  saw  so 
clearly  the  possibility;  and  thus  any  one  who 
is  conscious  of  the  dramatic  sense,  or  even 
dimly  suspects  that  it  is  there,  ought  to  pray 
very  humbly  to  be  delivered  from  it,  as  he 
would  from  any  other  darling  bosom-sin.  He 
ought  to  eschew  diplomacy  and  practise  frank- 
ness, he  ought  to  welcome  failure  and  to  re- 
joice when  he  makes  humiliating  mistakes. 
He  ought  to  be  grateful  even  for  palpable 
faults  and  weaknesses  and  sins  and  physical 
disabilities.     For  if  we  have  the  hope  that 


The  Dramatic  Sense         239 

God  is  educating  us,  is  moulding  a  fair  statue 
out  of  the  frail  and  sordid  clay,  such  a  faith 
forbids  us  to  reject  any  experience,  however 
disagreeable,  however  painful,  however  self- 
revealing  it  may  be,  as  of  no  import;  and  thus 
we  can  grow  into  a  truer  sense  of  proportion, 
till  at  last  we  may  come 

"to  learn  that  Man 
Is  small,  and  not  forget  that  Man  is  great." 


XI 
Kelmscott  and  William  Morris 

I  HAD  been  at  Fairford  that  still,  fresh, 
*  April  morning,  and  had  enjoyed  the  sunny 
little  piazza,  with  its  pretty  characteristic 
varieties  of  pleasant  stone-built  houses,  solid 
Georgian  fronts  interspersed  with  mullioned 
gables.  But  the  church !  That  is  a  marvel- 
lous place;  its  massive  lantern-tower,  with 
solid,  softly  moulded  outlines — for  the  sandy 
oolite  admits  little  fineness  of  detail — all 
weathered  to  a  beautiful  orange-grey  tint,  has 
a  mild  dignity  of  its  own.  Inside  it  is  a  trea- 
sure of  mediaevalism.  The  screens,  the  wood- 
work, the  monuments,  all  rich,  dignified,  and 
spacious.  And  the  glass!  Next  to  King's  Col- 
lege Chapel,  I  suppose,  it  is  the  noblest  series  of 
windows  in  England,  and  the  colour  of  it  is  in- 
comparable. Azure  and  crimson,  green  and 
orange,  yet  all  with  a  firm  economy  of  eflFect, 
the  robes  of  the  saints  set  and  imbedded  in  a 
240 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    241 

fine  intricacy  of  white  tabernacle-work.  As 
to  the  design,  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  smile 
or  weep.  The  splendid,  ugly  faces  of  the 
saints,  depicted,  whether  designedly  or  art- 
lessly I  cannot  guess,  as  men  of  simple  pas- 
sions and  homely  experience,  moved  me  greatly, 
so  unlike  the  mild,  polite,  porcelain  visages  of 
even  the  best  modern  glass.  But  the  windows 
are  as  thick  with  demons  as  a  hive  with  bees; 
and  oh!  the  irresponsible  levity  displayed  in 
these  merry,  grotesque,  long-nosed  creatures, 
some  flame-coloured  and  long-tailed,  some 
green  and  scaly,  some  plated  like  the  arma- 
dillo, all  going  about  their  merciless  work 
with  infinite  gusto  and  glee!  Here  one  picked 
at  the  white  breast  of  a  languid,  tortured  wo- 
man who  lay  bathed  in  fiame;  one  with  a 
glowing  hook  thrust  a  lamentable  big- 
paunched  wretch  down  into  a  bath  of  molten 
liquor;  one  with  pleased  intentness  turned  the 
handle  of  a  churn,  from  the  top  of  which  pro- 
truded the  head  of  a  fair-haired  boy,  all  dis- 
torted with  pain  and  terror.  What  could 
have  been  in  the  mind  of  the  designer  of  these 
hateful  scenes?  It  is  impossible  to  acquit 
him  of  a  strong  sense  of  the  humorous.     Did 


242  At  Large 

he  believe  that  such  things  were  actually  in 
progress  in  some  infernal  cavern,  seven  times 
heated?  I  fear  it  may  have  been  so.  And  what 
of  the  efiPect  upon  the  minds  of  the  village  folk 
who  saw  them  day  by  day?  It  would  have 
depressed,  one  would  think,  an  imaginative 
girl  or  boy  into  madness,  to  dream  of  such 
things  as  being  countenanced  by  God  for  the 
heathen  and  the  unbaptised,  as  well  as  for  the 
cruel  and  sinful.  If  the  vile  work  had  been 
represented  as  being  done  by  cloudy,  sombre, 
relentless  creatures,  it  would  have  been  more 
tolerable.  But  these  fantastic  imps,  as  lively 
as  grigs  and  full  to  the  brim  of  wicked  laugh- 
ter, are  certainly  enjoying  themselves  with  an 
extremity  of  delight  of  which  no  trace  is  to  be 
seen  in  the  mournful  and  heavily  lined  faces 
of  the  faithful.  Aiitres  temps,  aiitres  moenrs! 
Perhaps  the  simple,  coarse  mental  palates  of 
the  village  folk  were  none  the  worse  for  this 
realistic  treatment  of  sin.  One  wonders  what 
the  saintly  and  refined  Keble,  who  spent  many 
years  of  his  life  as  his  father's  curate  here, 
thought  of  it  all.  Probably  his  submissive 
and  deferential  mind  accepted  it  as  in  some 
jscclesiastical   sense   symbolical   of  the  merci- 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    243 

less  hatred  of  God  for  the  desperate  corrup- 
tion of  humanity.  It  gave  me  little  pleasure 
to  connect  the  personality  of  Keble  with  the 
place,  patient,  sweet-natured,  mystical,  ser- 
viceable as  he  was.  It  seems  hard  to  breathe 
in  the  austere  air  of  a  mind  like  Keble's,  where 
the  wind  of  the  spirit  blows  chill  down  the 
narrow  path,  fenced  in  by  the  high,  uncom- 
promising walls  of  ecclesiastical  tradition  on 
the  one  hand  and  stern  Puritanism  on  the 
other.  An  artificial  type,  one  is  tempted  to 
say! — and  yet  one  ought  never,  I  suppose,  so 
to  describe  any  flower  that  has  blossomed 
fragrantly  upon  the  human  stock;  any  system 
that  seems  to  extend  a  natural  and  instinctive 
appeal  to  certain  definite  classes  of  human 
temperament. 

I  sped  pleasantly  enough  along  the  low,  rich 
pastures,  thick  with  hedgerow  elms,  to  Lech- 
lade,  another  pretty  town  with  an  infinite 
variety  of  habitations.  Here  again  is  a  fine 
ancient  church  with  a  comely  spire,  "  a  pretty 
pyramis  of  stone,"  as  the  old  Itinerary  says, 
overlooking  a  charming  gabled  house,  among 
walled  and  terraced  gardens,  with  stone  balls 
on  the  corner-posts  and  a  quaint  pavilion,  the 


244  At  Large 

river  running  below;  and  so  on  to  a  bridge 
over  the  yet  slender  Thames,  where  the  river 
TW^ater  spouted  clear  and  fragrant  into  a  wide 
pool;  and  across  the  flat  meadows,  bright 
with  kingcups,  the  spire  of  Lechlade  tow- 
ered over  the  clustered  house-roofs  to  the 
west. 

Then  further  still  by  a  lonely  ill-laid  road. 
And  thus,  with  a  mind  pleasantly  attuned  to 
beauty  and  a  quickening  pulse,  I  drew  near  to 
Kelmscott.  The  great  alluvial  flat,  broaden- 
ing on  either  hand,  with  low  wooded  heights, 
''  not  ill-designed,"  as  Morris  said,  to  the 
south.  Then  came  a  winding  cross-track,  and 
presently  I  drew  near  to  a  straggling  village, 
every  house  of  which  had  some  charm  and 
quality  of  style,  with  here  and  there  a  high 
gabled  dovecot,  and  its  wooden  cupola,  stand- 
ing up  among  solid  barns  and  stacks.  Here 
was  a  tiny  and  inconspicuous  church,  with  a 
small  stone  belfry;  and  then  the  road  pushed 
on,  to  die  away  among  the  fields.  But  there, 
at  the  very  end  of  the  village,  stood  the  house 
of  which  we  were  in  search;  and  it  was  with 
a  touch  of  awe,  with  a  quickening  heart,  that 
I  drew  near  to  a  place  of  such  sweet  and  gra- 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    245 

cious  memories,  a  place  so  dear  to  more  than 
one  of  the  heroes  of  art. 

One  comes  to  the  goal  of  an  artistic  pilgrim- 
age with  a  certain  sacred  terror;  either  the 
place  is  disappointing,  or  it  is  utterly  unlike 
.what  one  anticipates.  I  knew  Kelmscott  so 
well  from  Rossetti's  letters,  from  Morris's  own 
splendid  and  loving  description,  from  pic- 
tures, from  the  tales  of  other  pilgrims,  that  I 
felt  I  could  not  be  disappointed;  and  I  was 
not.  It  was  not  only  just  like  what  I  had 
pictured  it  to  be,  but  it  had  a  delicate  and 
natural  grace  of  its  own  as  well.  The  house 
was  larger  and  more  beautiful,  the  garden 
smaller  and  not  less  beautiful,  than  I  had 
imagined.  I  had  not  thought  it  was  so  shy, 
so  rustic  a  place.  It  is  very  difficult  to  get 
any  clear  view  of  the  manor.  By  the  road  are 
cottages,  and  a  big  building,  half  storehouse, 
half  wheelwright's  shop,  to  serve  the  homely 
needs  of  the  farm.  Through  the  open  door 
one  could  see  a  bench  with  tools;  and  planks, 
staves,  spokes,  waggon-tilts,  faggots,  were  all 
stacked  in  a  pleasant  confusion.  Then  came 
a  walled  kitchen-garden,  with  some  big 
shrubs,   bay   and   laurestinus,   rising  plumply 


246  At  Large 

within;  beyond  which  the  grey  house,  spread 
thin  with  plaster,  held  up  its  gables  and  chim- 
neys over  a  stone-tiled  roof.  To  the  left,  big 
barns  and  byres — a  farm-man  leading  in  a 
young  bull  with  a  pole  at  the  nose-ring;  be- 
yond that,  open  fields,  with  a  dyke  and  a 
flood-wall  of  earth,  grown  over  with  nettles, 
withered  sedges  in  the  watercourse,  and  elms 
in  which  the  rooks  were  clamorously  building. 
We  met  with  the  ready,  simple  Berkshire 
courtesy;  we  were  referred  to  a  gardener  who 
was  in  charge.  To  speak  with  him,  we  walked 
round  to  the  other  side  of  the  house,  to  an 
open  space  of  grass,  where  the  fowls  picked 
merrily,  and  the  old  farm-lumber,  broken 
coops,  disused  ploughs,  lay  comfortably  about. 
"  How  I  love  tidiness ! "  wrote  Morris  once. 
Yet  I  did  not  feel  that  he  would  have  done 
other  than  love  all  this  natural  and  simple 
litter  of  the  busy  farmstead. 

Here  the  venerable  house  appeared  more 
stately  still.  Through  an  open  door  in  a  wall 
we  caught  a  sight  of  the  old  standards  of  an 
orchard,  and  borders  with  the  spikes  of  spring- 
flowers  pushing  through  the  mould.  The 
gardener  was  digging  in  the  gravelly  soil.   He 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    247 

received  us  with  a  grave  and  kindly  air;  but 
when  we  asked  if  we  could  look  into  the  house, 
he  said,  with  a  sturdy  faithfulness,  that  his 
orders  were  that  no  one  should  see  it,  and 
continued  his  digging  without  heeding  us 
further. 

Somewhat  abashed  we  retraced  our  steps; 
we  got  one  glimpse  of  the  fine  indented  front, 
with  its  shapely  wings  and  projections.  I 
should  like  to  have  seen  the  great  parlour,  and 
the  tapestry-room  with  the  story  of  Samson 
that  bothered  Rossetti  so  over  his  work.  I 
should  like  to  have  seen  the  big  oak  bed,  with 
its  hangings  embroidered  with  one  of  Morris's 
sweetest  lyrics: 

The  wind 's  on  the  wold, 
And  the  night  is  a-cold. 

I  should  like  to  have  seen  the  tapestry-chamber, 
and  the  room  where  Morris,  who  so  frankly 
relished  the  healthy  savour  of  meat  and  drink, 
ate  his  joyful  meals,  and  the  peacock  yew-tree 
that  he  found  in  his  days  of  failing  strength 
too  hard  a  task  to  clip.  I  should  like  to  have 
seen  all  this,  I  say;  and  yet  I  am  not  sure 
that  tables  and  chairs,  upholsteries  and  pio- 


248  At  Large 

tures,  would  not  have  come  in  between  me  and 
the  sacred  spirit  of  the  place. 

So  I  turned  to  the  church.  Plain  and 
homely  as  its  exterior  is,  inside  it  is  touched 
with  the  true  mediaeval  spirit,  like  the  "  old 
febel  chapel"  of  the  Mort  (V Arthur.  Its 
bare  walls,  its  half-obliterated  frescoes,  its 
sturdy  pillars,  gave  it  an  ancient,  simple  air. 
But  I  did  not,  to  my  grief,  see  the  grave  of 
Morris,  though  I  saw  in  fancy  the  coffin 
brought  from  Lechlade  in  the  bright  farm- 
waggon,  on  that  day  of  pitiless  rain.  For 
there  was  going  on  in  the  churchyard  the  only 
thing  I  saw  that  day  that  seemed  to  me  to 
strike  a  false  note;  a  silly  posing  of  village 
girls,  self-conscious  and  overdressed,  before 
the  camera  of  a  photographer — a  playing  at 
aesthetics,  bringing  into  the  village  life  a  touch 
of  unwholesome  vanity  and  the  vulgar  afifecta- 
tion  of  the  world.  That  is  the  ugly  shadow 
of  fame;  it  makes  conventional  people  curious 
about  the  details  of  a  great  man's  life  and  sur- 
roundings, without  initiating  them  into  any 
sympathy  with  his  ideals  and  motives.  The 
price  that  the  real  worshippers  pay  for  their 
inspiration    is   the   slavering   idolatry    of   the 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    249 

unintelligent;  and  I  withdrew  in  a  mournful 
wonder  from  the  place,  wishing  I  could  set  an 
invisible  fence  round  the  scene,  a  fence  which 
none  should  pass  but  the  few  who  had  the 
secret  and  the  key  in  their  hearts. 

And  here,  for  the  pleasure  of  copying  the 
sweet  words,  let  me  transcribe  a  few  sentences 
from  Morris's  own  description  of  the  house 
itself : 

A  house  that  I  love  with  a  reasonable  love,  I 
think;  for  though  my  words  may  give  you  no  idea 
of  any  special  charm  about  it,  yet  I  assure  you 
that  the  charm  is  there;  so  much  has  the  old  house 
grown  up  out  of  the  soil  and  the  lives  of  those  that 
lived  on  it:  some  thin  thread  of  tradition,  a  half- 
anxious  sense  of  the  delight  of  meadow  and  acre 
and  wood  and  river;  a  certain  amount  (not  too 
much,  let  us  hope)  of  common-sense,  a  liking  for 
making  materials  serve  one's  turn,  and  perhaps  at 
bottom  some  little  grain  of  sentiment — this,  I  think, 
was  what  went  to  the  making  of  the  old  house. 

And  again: 

My  feet  moved  along  the  road  they  knew.  The 
raised  way  led  us  into  a  little  field,  bounded  by  a 
backwater  of  the  river  on  one  side;  on  the  right 
hand  we  could  see  a  cluster  of  small  houses  and 
barns,  and  before  us  a  grey  stone  bam  and  a  wall 
partly  overgrown  with  ivy,  over  which  a  few  grey 
gables  showed.  The  village  road  ended  in  the  shal- 
low of  the  backwater.     We  crossed  the  road,  and 


2$o  At  Large 

my  hand  raised  the  latch  of  a  door  in  the  wall,  and 
we  stood  presently  on  a  stone  path  which  led  up 
to  the  old  house.  The  garden  between  the  wall  and 
the  house  was  redolent  of  the  June  flowers,  and 
the  roses  were  rolling  over  one  another  with  that 
delicious  superabundance  of  small  well-tended  gar- 
dens which  at  first  sight  takes  away  all  thought  save 
that  of  beauty.  The  blackbirds  were  singing  their 
loudest,  the  doves  were  cooing  on  the  roof -ridge,  the 
rooks  in  the  high  elm-trees  beyond  were  garrulous 
among  the  young  leaves,  and  the  swifts  wheeled 
whirring  about  the  gables.  And  the  house  itself 
was  a  fit  guardian  for  all  the  beauty  of  this  heart 
of  summer. 

O  me!  0  me!  How  I  love  the  earth,  and  the  sea- 
sons, and  weather,  and  all  things  that  deal  with  it, 
and  all  that  grows  out  of  it — as  this  has  done! 
The  earth  and  the  growth  of  it  and  the  life  of  it! 
If  I  could  but  say  or  show  how  I  love  it! 

The  pure  lyrical  beauty  of  this  passage 
makes  one  out  of  conceit  with  one's  own 
clumsy  sentences.  But  still,  I  will  say  how 
all  that  afternoon,  among  the  quiet  fields, 
with  the  white  clouds  rolling  up  over  the  lip 
of  the  wolds,  I  was  haunted  with  the  thought 
of  that  burly  figure;  the  great  head  with  its 
curly  hair  and  beard;  the  eyes  that  seemed  so 
guarded  and  unobservant,  and  that  yet  saw 
and  noted  every  smallest  detail ;  the  big 
clumsy  hands,  apt  for  such  delicacy  of  work; 
to  see  him  in  his  rough  blue  suit,  his  easy  roll- 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    251 

ing  gait,  wandering  about,  stooping  to  look  at 
the  flowers  in  the  beds,  or  glancing  up  at  the 
sky,  or  sauntering  off  to  fish  in  the  stream,  or 
writing  swiftly  in  the  parlour,  or  working  at 
his  loom;  so  bluff,  so  kindly,  so  blunt  in  ad- 
dress, so  unaffected,  loving  all  that  he  saw, 
the  tide  of  full-blooded  and  restless  life  run- 
ning so  vigorously  in  his  veins;  or,  further 
back,  Rossetti,  with  his  wide  eyes,  half-bright, 
half-languorous,  pale,  haunted  with  impos- 
sible dreams,  pacing,  rapt  in  feverish  thought, 
through  the  lonely  fields.  The  ghosts  of 
heroes!  And  whether  it  was  that  my  own 
memories  and  affections  and  visions  stirred 
my  brain,  or  that  some  tide  of  the  spirit  still 
sets  from  the  undiscovered  shores  to  the 
scenes  of  life  and  love,  I  know  not,  but  the 
place  seemed  thronged  with  unseen  presences 
and  viewless  mysteries  of  hope.  Doubtless, 
loving  as  we  do  the  precise  forms  of  earthly 
beauty,  the  wide  green  pastures,  the  tender 
grace  of  age  on  gable  and  wall,  the  springing 
of  sweet  flowers,  the  clear  gush  of  the  stream, 
we  are  really  in  love  with  some  deeper  and 
holier  thing;  yet  even  about  the  symbols 
themselves  there  lingers  a  consecrating  power; 


252  At  Large 

and  that  influence  was  present  with  me  to- 
day, as  J  went  homewards  in  the  westering 
light,  with  the  shadows  of  house  and  tree 
lengthening  across  the  grass  in  the  still 
afternoon. 

Heroes,  I  said?  Well,  I  will  not  here  speak 
of  Rossetti,  though  his  impassioned  heart  and 
wayward  dreams  were  made  holy,  I  think, 
through  suffering:  he  has  purged  his  fault. 
But  I  cannot  deny  the  name  of  hero  to  Morris. 
Let  me  put  into  words  what  was  happening 
to  him  at  the  very  time  at  which  he  had  made 
this  sweet  place  his  home.  He  had  already 
done  as  much  in  those  early  years  as  many 
men  do  in  a  lifetime.  He  had  written  great 
poems,  he  had  loved  and  wedded,  he  had  made 
abundant  friends,  his  wealth  was  growing 
fast;  he  loved  every  detail  of  his  work,  design- 
ing, weaving,  dyeing;  he  had  a  band  of  de- 
voted workers  and  craftsmen  under  him.  He 
could  defy  the  world;  he  cared  nothing  at  all 
for  society  or  honours.  He  had  magnificent 
vitality,  a  physique  which  afforded  him  every 
kind  of  wholesome  momentary  enjoyment. 

In  the  middle  of  all  this  happy  activity  a 
cloud  came  over  his  mind,  blotting  out  the 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    253 

sunshine.  Partly,  perhaps,  private  sorrows 
had  something  to  do  with  it;  partly,  perhaps, 
a  weakening  of  physical  fibre,  after  a  life  of 
enormous  productivity  and  restless  energy, 
made  itself  felt.  But  these  were  only  inciden- 
tal causes.  TVTiat  began  to  weigh  upon  him 
was  the  thought  of  all  the  toiling  thousands 
of  humanity,  whose  lives  of  labour  precluded 
them  from  the  enjoyment  of  all  or  nearly  all 
of  the  beautiful  things  that  were  to  him  the 
very  essence  of  life;  and,  what  was  worse  still, 
he  perceived  that  the  very  faculty  of  higher 
enjoyment  was  lacking,  the  instinct  for  beauty 
having  been  atrophied  and  almost  eradicated 
by  sad  inheritance.  He  saw  that  not  only  did 
the  workers  not  feel  the  joyful  love  of  art  and 
natural  beauty,  but  that  they  could  not  have 
enjoyed  such  pleasures,  even  if  they  were  to  be 
brought  near  to  them;  and  then  came  the 
further  and  darker  thought,  that  modern  art 
was,  after  all,  a  hollow  and  a  soulless  thing. 
He  saw  round  him  beautiful  old  houses  like 
his  own,  old  churches  which  spoke  of  a  high 
natural  instinct  for  fineness  of  form  and  de- 
tail. These  things  seemed  to  stand  for  a  wide- 
spread and  lively  joy  in  simple  beauty  which 


254  At  Large 

seemed  to  have  vanished  out  of  the  world.  In 
ancient  times  it  was  natural  to  the  old  build- 
ers if  thej  had,  say,  a  barn  to  build,  to  make 
it  strong  and  seemly  and  graceful;  to  buttress 
it  with  stone,  to  bestow  care  and  thought  upon 
coign  and  window-ledge  and  dripstone;  to 
prop  the  roof  on  firm  and  shapely  beams,  and 
to  cover  it  with  honest  stone  tiles,  each  one  of 
which  had  an  individuality  of  its  own.  But 
now  he  saw  that  if  people  built  naturally,  they 
ran  up  flimsy  walls  of  brick,  tied  them  to- 
gether with  iron  rods,  and  put  a  curved  roof 
of  galvanised  iron  on  the  top.  It  was  bad 
enough  that  it  should  be  built  so,  but  what 
was  worse  still  was  that  no  one  saw  or  heeded 
the  difference;  they  thought  the  new  style  was 
more  convenient,  and  the  question  of  beauty 
never  entered  their  minds  at  all.  They  re- 
morselessly pulled  down,  or  patched  meanly 
and  sordidly,  the  old  work.  And  thus  he  be- 
gan to  feel  that  modern  art  was  an  essentially 
artificial  thing,  a  luxury  existing  for  a  few 
leisurely  people,  and  no  longer  based  on  a  deep 
universal  instinct.  He  thought  that  art  was 
wounded  to  death  by  competition  and  hurry 
and   vulgarity   and   materialism,   and   that  it 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    255 

must  die  down  altogether  before  a  sweet  natu- 
ral product  could  arise  from  the  stump. 

Then,  too,  Morris  was  not  an  individualist; 
he  cared,  one  may  think,  about  things  more 
than  people.  A  friend  of  his  once  complained 
that,  if  he  were  to  die,  Morris  would  no  doubt 
grieve  for  him  and  even  miss  him,  but  that  it 
would  make  no  gap  in  his  life,  nor  interrupt 
his  energy  of  work.  He  cared  for  movements, 
for  classes,  for  groups  of  men,  more  than  he 
cared  for  persons.  And  thus  the  idea  came 
to  him,  in  a  mournful  year  of  reflection,  that 
it  was  not  only  a  mistake,  but  of  the  nature 
of  sin,  to  isolate  himself  in  a  little  Paradise 
of  art  of  his  own  making,  and  to  allow  the 
great  noisy,  ugly,  bewildered  world  to  go  on 
its  way.  It  was  a  noble  grief.  The  thought 
of  the  bare,  uncheered,  hopeless  lives  of  the 
poor  came  to  weigh  on  him  like  an  ob- 
session, and  he  began  to  turn  over  in  his  mind 
what  he  could  do  to  unravel  the  knotted 
skein. 

"  I  am  rather  in  a  discouraged  mood,"  he 
wrote  on  New  Year's  Day,  1880,  "  and  the 
whole  thing  seems  almost  too  tangled  to  see 
through  and  too  heavy  to  move."    And  again : 


256  At  Large 

I  have  of  late  been  somewhat  melancholy  (rather 
too  strong  a  word,  but  I  don't  know  another) ;  not 
so  much  so  as  not  to  enjoy  life  in  a  way,  but  just 
so  much  as  a  man  of  middle  age  who  has  met  with 
rubs  (though  less  than  his  share  of  them)  may 
sometimes  be  allowed  to  be.  When  one  is  just  so 
much  subdued  one  is  apt  to  turn  more  specially 
from  thinking  of  one's  own  affairs  to  more  worthy 
matters;  and  my  mind  is  very  full  of  the  great 
change  which  I  hope  is  slowly  coming  over  the 
world. 


And  so  he  plunged  into  Socialism.  He  gave 
up  his  poetry  and  much  of  his  congenial  work. 
He  attended  meetings  and  committees;  he 
wrote  leaflets  and  pamphlets;  he  lavished 
money;  he  took  to  giving  lectures  and  ad- 
dresses; he  exposed  himself  to  misunder- 
standings and  insults.  He  spoke  in  rain  at 
street  corners  to  indifferent  loungers;  he 
pushed  a  little  cart  about  the  squares  selling 
Socialist  literature;  he  had  collisions  with  the 
police;  he  was  summoned  before  magistrates: 
the  "  poetic  upholsterer,"  as  he  was  called, 
became  an  object  of  bewildered  contempt  to 
friends  and  foes  alike.  The  work  was  not 
congenial  to  him,  but  he  did  it  well,  develop- 
ing infinite  tolerance  and  good-humour,  and 
even  tactfulness,  in  his  relations  with  other 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    257 

men.  The  exposure  to  the  weather,  the  strain, 
the  neglect  of  his  own  physical  needs,  brought 
on,  undoubtedly,  the  illness  of  which  he  event- 
ually died;  and  worst  of  all  was  the  growing 
shadow  of  discouragement,  which  made  him 
gradually  aware  that  the  times  were  not  ripe, 
and  that  even  if  the  people  could  seize  the 
power  they  desired,  they  could  not  use  it.  He 
became  aware  that  the  worker's  idea  of  rising 
in  the  social  scale  was  not  the  idea  of  gaining 
security,  leisure,  independence,  and  love  of 
honest  work,  but  the  hope  of  migrating  to  the 
middle  class,  and  becoming  a  capitalist  on  a 
small  scale.  That  was  the  last  thing  that 
Morris  desired.  Most  of  all  he  felt  the  charge 
of  inconsistency  that  was  dinned  into  his  ears. 
It  was  held  ridiculous  that  a  wealthy  capitalist 
and  a  large  employer  of  labour,  living,  if  not 
in  luxury,  at  least  in  considerable  stateliness, 
should  profess  Socialist  ideas  without  at- 
tempting to  disencumber  himself  of  his  wealth. 
He  wrote  in  answer  to  a  loving  remonstrance; 

You  see,  my  dearyd  can't  help  it.  The  ideas  which 
have  taken  hold  of  me  will  not  let  me  rest;  nor  can 
I  see  anything  else  worth  thinking  of.  How  can  it 
be  otherwise,  when  to  me  society,  which  to  many 
geems  an  orderly  arrangement  for  allowing  decent 

17 


258  At  Large 

people  to  get  through  their  lives  creditably  and  with 
some  pleasure,  seems  mere  cannibalism;  nay,  worse 
(for  there  ought  to  be  hope  in  that),  is  grown  so 
corrupt,  so  steeped  in  hypocrisy  and  lies,  that  one 
turns  from  one  stratum  of  it  to  another  with  hope- 
less loathing.  ,  .  ,  Meantime,  what  a  little  ruf- 
fles me  is  this,  that  if  I  do  a  little  fail  in  my  duty 
some  of  my  friends  will  praise  me  for  failing  in- 
stead of  blaming  me. 

And  then  at  last,  after  every  sordid  circum- 
stance of  intrigue  and  squabble  and  jealousy, 
one  after  another  of  the  organisations  he 
joined  broke  down.  Half  gratefully  and  half 
mournfully  he  disengaged  himself,  not  because 
he  did  not  believe  in  his  principles,  but  be- 
cause he  saw  that  the  difficulties  were  insu- 
perable. He  came  back  to  the  old  life;  he 
flung  himself  with  renewed  ardour  into  art 
and  craftsmanship.  He  began  to  write  the 
beautiful  and  romantic  prose  tales,  with  their 
enchanting  titles,  which  are,  perhaps,  his 
most  characteristic  work.  He  learnt  by  slow 
degrees  that  a  clean  sweep  of  an  evil  system 
cannot  be  made  in  a  period  or  a  lifetime  by  an 
individual,  however  serious  or  strenuous  he 
may  be;  he  began  to  perceive  that,  if  society 
is  to  put  ideas  in  practice,  the  ideas  must  first 
be   there,   clearly   defined   and   widely   appre- 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    259 

hended;  and  that  it  is  useless  to  urge  men  to 
a  life  of  which  they  have  no  conception  and 
for  which  they  have  no  desire.  He  had  al- 
ways held  it  to  be  a  sacred  duty  for  people  to 
live,  if  possible,  in  whatever  simplicity,  among 
beautiful  things;  and  it  may  be  said  that  no 
one  man  in  one  generation  has  ever  effected 
so  much  in  this  direction.  He  has,  indeed, 
leavened  and  educated  taste;  he  has  destroyed 
a  vile  and  hypocritical  tradition  of  domestic 
art;  by  his  writings  he  has  opened  a  door  for 
countless  minds  into  a  remote  and  fragrant 
region  of  unspoilt  romance;  and,  more  still 
than  this,  he  remains  an  example  of  one  who 
made  a  great  and  triumphant  resignation  of 
all  that  he  held  most  dear,  for  the  sake  of  do- 
ing what  he  thought  to  be  right.  He  was  not 
an  ascetic,  giving  up  what  is  half  an  incum- 
brance and  half  a  terror ;  nor  was  he  naturally 
a  melancholy  and  detached  person;  but  he 
gave  up  work  which  he  loved  passionately,  and 
a  life  which  he  lived  in  a  full-blooded,  gener- 
ous way,  that  he  might  try  to  share  his  bless- 
ings with  others,  out  of  a  supreme  pity  for 
those  less  richly  endowed  than  himself. 
How,  then,  should  not  this  corner  of  the 


26o  At  Large 

world,  which  he  loved  so  dearly,  speak  to  the 
spirit  with  a  voice  and  an  accent  far  louder 
and  more  urgent  than  its  own  tranquil  habit 
of  sunny  peace  and  green-shaded  sweetness! 
*'  You  know  my  faith,"  wrote  Morris  from 
Kelmscott  in  a  bewildered  hour,  "  and  how  I 
feel  I  have  no  sort  of  right  to  revenge  myself 
for  any  of  my  private  troubles  on  the  kind 
earth ;  and  here  I  feel  her  kindness  very  spe- 
cially, and  am  bound  not  to  meet  it  with  a  long 
face."  Noble  and  high-hearted  words !  for  he 
of  all  men  seemed  made  by  nature  to  enjoy 
security  and  beauty  and  the  joys  of  living,  if 
ever  man  was  so  made.  His  very  lack  of 
personal  sensitiveness,  his  unaptness  to  be 
moved  by  the  pathetic  appeal  of  the  individual, 
might  have  been  made  a  shield  for  his  own 
peace;  but  he  laid  that  shield  down,  and  bared 
his  breast  to  the  sharp  arrows;  and  in  his 
noble  madness  to  redress  the  wrongs  of  the 
world  he  was,  perhaps,  more  like  one  of  his 
great  generous  knights  than  he  himself  ever 
suspected. 

This,  then,  I  think  is  the  reason  why  this 
place — a  grey  grange  at  the  end  of  a  country 
lane,  among  water  meadows — ^has  so  ample  a 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    261 

call  for  the  spirit.  A  place  of  which  Morris 
wrote,  "  The  scale  of  everything  of  the  small- 
est, but  so  sweet,  so  unusual  even;  it  was  like 
the  background  of  an  innocent  fairy-story." 
Yes,  it  might  have  been  that!  Many  of  the 
simplest  and  quietest  of  lives  had  been  lived 
there,  no  doubt,  before  Morris  came  that  way. 
But  with  him  came  a  realisation  of  its  virtues, 
a  perception  that  in  its  smallness  and  sweet- 
ness it  yet  held  imprisoned,  like  the  gem  that 
sits  on  the  smallest  finger  of  a  hand,  an  ocean 
of  light  and  colour.  The  two  things  that  lend 
strength  to  life  are,  in  the  first  place,  an  ap- 
preciation of  its  quality,  a  perception  of  its 
intense  and  awful  significance — the  thought 
that  we  here  hold  in  our  hands,  if  we  could 
but  piece  it  all  together,  the  elements  and  por- 
tions of  a  mighty,  an  overwhelming  problem. 
The  fragments  of  that  mighty  mystery  are 
sorrow,  sin,  suffering,  joy,  hope,  life,  death. 
Things  of  their  nature  sharply  opposed,  and 
yet  that  are,  doubtless,  somehow  and  some- 
where, united  and  composed  and  reconciled. 
It  is  at  this  sad  point  that  many  men  and  most 
artists  stop  short.  They  see  what  they  love 
and  desire;  they  emphasise  this  and  rest  upon 


262  At  Large 

it;  and  when  the  surge  of  suffering  buffets 
them  away,  they  drown,  bewildered,  struggling 
for  breath,  complaining. 

But  for  the  true  man  it  is  otherwise.  He 
is  penetrated  with  the  desire  that  all  should 
share  his  joy  and  be  emboldened  by  it.  It 
casts  a  cold  shadow  over  the  sunshine,  it  mars 
the  scent  of  the  roses,  it  wails  across  the  coo- 
ing of  the  doves — the  sense  that  others  suffer 
and  toil  unhelped;  and  still  more  grievous  to 
him  is  the  thought  that,  were  these  duller 
natures  set  free  from  the  galling  yoke,  their 
mirth  would  be  evil  and  hideous,  they  would 
have  no  inkling  of  the  sweeter  and  the  purer 
joy.  And  then,  if  he  be  wise,  he  tries  his 
hardest,  in  slow  and  wearied  hours,  to  com- 
fort, to  interpret,  to  explain;  in  much  heavi- 
ness and  dejection  he  labours,  while  all  the 
time,  though  he  knows  it  not,  the  sweet  ripple 
of  his  thoughts  spreads  across  the  stagnant 
pool.  He  may  be  flouted,  contemned,  insulted, 
but  he  heeds  it  not;  while  all  the  strands  of 
the  great  mystery,  dark  and  bright  alike,  work 
themselves,  delicately  and  surely,  into  the 
picture  of  his  life,  and  the  picture  of  other 
lives  as  well.    Larger  and  richer  grows  the 


Kelmscott  and  William  Morris    263 

great  design,  till  it  is  set  in  some  wide  hall  or 
corridor  of  the  House  of  Life;  and  the  figure 
of  the  toil-worn  knight,  with  armour  dinted 
and  brow  dimmed  with  dust  and  sweat,  kneel- 
ing at  the  shrine,  makes  the  very  silence  of 
the  place  beautiful ;  while  those  that  go  to  and 
fro  rejoice,  not  in  the  suffering  and  weariness, 
not  in  the  worn  face  and  the  thin,  sun- 
browned  hands,  but  in  the  thought  that  he 
loved  all  things  well;  that  his  joy  was  pure 
and  high,  that  his  clear  eyes  pierced  the  dull 
mist  that  wreathed  cold  field  and  dripping 
wood,  and  that,  when  he  sank,  outworn  and 
languid  after  the  day's  long  toil,  the  jocund 
trumpets  broke  out  from  the  high-walled  town 
in  a  triumphant  concert,  because  he  had  done 
worthily,  and  should  now  see  greater  things 
than  these. 


XII 
A  Speech  Day 

IN  the  course  of  the  summer  it  was  my  lot  to 
attend  the  Speech-Day  festivities  of  a  cer- 
tain school — indeed,  I  attended  at  more  than 
one  such  gathering,  vocatus  atque  non  vocatus, 
as  Horace  says.  They  are  not  the  sort  of  en- 
tertainments I  should  choose  for  pleasure; 
one  feels  too  much  like  a  sheep,  driven  from 
pen  to  pen,  kindly  and  courteously  driven,  but 
still  driven.  One  is  fed  rather  than  eats. 
One  meets  a  number  of  charming  and  inter- 
esting people,  and  one  has  no  time  to  talk  to 
them.  But  I  am  always  glad  to  have  gone, 
and  one  carries  away  pleasant  memories  of 
kindness  and  courtesy,  of  youth  and  hope. 

This  particular  occasion  was  so  very  typi- 
cal that  I  am  going  to  try  and  gather  up  my 
impressions  and  ideas.  It  was  an  old  school 
and  a  famous  school,  though  not  one  of  the 
most  famous.  The  buildings  large  and  eflfec- 
264 


A  Speech  Day  265 

tive,  full  of  modern  and  np-to-date  improve- 
ments, with  a  mellow  core  of  antiquity,  in  the 
shape  of  a  venerable  little  court-yard  in  the 
centre.  There  were  green  lawns  and  pleasant 
gardens  and  umbrageous  trees;  and  it  was  a 
beautiful  day,  too,  sunny  and  fresh,  so  that 
one  was  neither  baked  nor  boiled.  The  first 
item  was  a  luncheon,  at  which  I  sat  between 
two  very  pleasant  strangers  and  exchanged 
cautious  views  on  education.  We  agreed  that 
the  value  of  the  classics  as  a  staple  of  mental 
training  was  perhaps  a  little  overrated,  and 
that  possibly  too  much  attention  was  nowa- 
days given  to  athletics;  but  that  after  all  the 
public-school  system  was  the  backbone  of  the 
country,  and  taught  boys  how  to  behave  like 
gentlemen,  and  how  to  govern  subject  races. 
We  agreed  that  they  were  ideal  training- 
grounds  for  character,  and  that  our  public- 
schools  were  the  envy  of  the  civilised  world. 
In  such  profound  and  suggestive  interchange 
of  ideas  the  time  sped  rapidly  away. 

Then  we  were  gathered  into  a  big  hall.  It 
was  pleasant  to  see  proud  parents  and  charm- 
ing sisters,  wearing  their  best,  clustered  ex- 
citedly  round   some  sturdy   and   well-brushed 


266  At  Large 

young  hero,  the  hope  of  the  race;  pleas- 
ant to  see  frock-coated  masters,  beaming  with 
professional  benevolence,  elderly  gentlemen 
smilingly  recalling  tales  of  youthful  prowess, 
which  had  grown  quite  epical  in  the  lapse  of 
time;  it  was  inspiriting  to  feel  one  of  a  big 
company  of  people,  all  bent  on  being  for  once 
as  good-humoured  and  cheerful  as  possible, 
and  all  inspired  by  a  vague  desire  to  improve 
the  occasion. 

The  prizes  were  given  away  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  rolling  thunder  of  applause ;  we 
had  familiar  and  ingenuous  recitations  from 
youthful  orators,  who  desired  friends,  Ro- 
mans, and  countrymen  to  lend  them  their  ears, 
or  accepted  the  atrocious  accusation  of  being 
a  young  man;  and  then  a  Bishop,  who  had 
been  a  schoolmaster  himself,  delivered  an  ad- 
dress. It  was  delightful  to  see  and  hear  the 
good  man  expatiate.  I  did  not  believe  much 
in  what  he  said,  nor  could  I  reasonably  en- 
dorse many  of  his  statements;  but  he  did  it 
all  so  genially  and  naturally  that  one  felt  al- 
most ashamed  to  question  the  matter  of  his 
discourse.  Yet  I  could  not  help  wondering 
,why   it   is   thought   advisable   always   to   say 


A  Speech  Day  267 

exactly  the  same  things  on  these  occasions. 
The  good  man  began  by  asserting  that  the  boys 
would  never  be  so  happy  or  so  important  again 
ill  their  lives  as  they  were  at  school,  and  that 
all  grown-up  people  were  envying  them.  I 
don't  know  whether  any  one  believed  that;  I 
am  sure  the  boys  did  not,  if  I  can  judge  by 
what  my  own  feelings  used  to  be  on  such  oc- 
casions. Personally  I  used  to  think  my  school 
a  very  decent  sort  of  place,  but  I  looked  for- 
ward with  excitement  and  interest  to  the 
liberty  and  life  of  the  larger  world;  and 
though  perhaps  in  a  way  we  elders  envied  the 
boys  for  having  the  chances  before  them  that 
we  had  so  many  of  us  neglected  to  seize,  I 
don't  suppose  that  with  the  parable  of  Vice 
Versa  before  us  we  would  really  have  changed 
places  with  them.  Would  any  one  ever  return 
willingly  to  discipline  and  barrack-life? 
Would  any  one  under  discipline  refuse  in- 
dependence if  it  were  offered  him  on  easy 
terms?    I  doubt  it! 

Then  the  Bishop  went  on  to  talk  about 
educational  things;  and  he  said  with  much 
emphasis  that  in  spite  of  all  that  was  said 
about  modern  education,  we  most  of  us  real- 


268  At  Large 

ised  as  we  grew  older  that  all  culture  was 
really  based  upon  the  Greek  and  Latin 
classics.  We  all  stamped  on  the  ground  and 
cheered  at  that,  I  as  lustily  as  the  rest,  though 
I  am  quite  sure  it  is  not  true.  All  that  the 
Bishop  really  meant  was  that  such  culture  as 
he  himself  possessed  had  been  based  on  the 
classics.  Now  the  Bishop  is  a  robust,  genial, 
and  sensible  man,  but  he  is  not  a  strictly  cul- 
tured man.  He  is  only  sketchily  varnished 
with  culture.  He  thinks  that  German  litera- 
ture is  nebulous,  and  French  literature  im- 
moral. I  don't  suppose  he  ever  reads  an 
English  book,  except  perhaps  an  ecclesiastical 
biography;  he  would  say  that  he  had  no  time 
to  read  a  novel;  probably  he  glances  at  the 
Christian  Year  on  Sundays,  and  peruses  a 
Waverley  novel  if  he  is  kept  in  bed  by  a  cold. 
Yet  he  considers  himself,  and  would  be  gen- 
erally considered,  a  well-educated  man.  I 
believe  myself  that  the  reason  why  we  as  a 
nation  love  good  literature  so  little  is  because 
we  are  starved  at  an  impressionable  age  on  a 
diet  of  classics;  and  to  persist  in  regarding 
the  classics  as  the  high-water  mark  of  the 
human  intellect  seems  to  me  to  argue  a  melan- 


A  Speech  Day  269 

choly  want  of  faith  in  the  progress  of  the 
race.  However,  for  the  moment  we  all  be- 
lieved ourselves  to  be  men  of  a  high  culture, 
soundly  based  on  the  corner-stone  of  Latin 
and  Greek.  Then  the  Bishop  went  on  to  speak 
of  athletics  with  a  solemn  earnestness,  and 
he  saidj  with  deep  conviction,  that  experience 
had  taught  him  that  whatever  was  worth  do- 
ing was  worth  doing  well.  He  did  not  argue 
the  point  as  to  whether  all  games  were  worth 
playing,  or  whether  by  filling  up  all  the  spare 
time  of  boys  with  them,  by  crowning  success- 
ful athletes  with  glory  and  worship,  by  en- 
gaging masters  who  will  talk  with  profound 
seriousness  about  bowling  and  batting,  row- 
ing and  football,  one  might  not  be  developing 
a  perfectly  false  sense  of  proportion.  He 
told  the  boys  to  play  games  with  all  their 
might,  and  he  left  on  their  minds  the  impres- 
sion that  athletics  were  certainly  things  to 
be  ranked  among  the  Christian  graces.  Of 
course  he  sincerely  believed  in  them  himself. 
He  would  have  maintained  that  they  developed 
manliness  and  vigour,  and  discouraged  loafing 
and  uncleanness.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  myself 
that  games  as  at  present  organised  do  minis- 


270  At  Large 

ter  directly  to  virtue.  The  popularity  of  the 
athlete  is  a  dangerous  thing  if  he  is  not  vir- 
tuously inclined;  while  the  excessive  organisa- 
tion of  games  discourages  individuality,  and 
emphasises  a  very  false  standard  of  success 
in  the  minds  of  many  boys.  But  the  Bishop 
was  not  invited  that  he  might  say  unconven- 
tional things.  He  was  asked  on  purpose  to 
bless  things  as  they  were,  and  he  blessed  them 
with  all  his  might. 

Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  the  real  point 
after  all  was  character  and  conduct;  that  in- 
tellect was  a  gift  of  God,  and  that  conspicu- 
ous athletic  capacity  was  a  gift — he  did  not 
like  to  say  of  God,  so  he  said  of  Providence; 
but  that  in  one  respect  we  were  all  equal,  and 
that  was  in  our  capacity  for  moral  effort;  and 
that  the  boy  who  came  to  the  front  was  not 
always  the  distinguished  scholar  or  the  famous 
athlete,  but  the  industrious,  trustworthy, 
kindly,  generous,  public-spirited  boy.  This  he 
said  with  deep  emotion,  as  though  it  were 
rather  a  daring  and  unexpected  statement, 
but  discerned  by  a  vigilant  candour;  and  all 
this  with  the  air  that  he  was  testifying  faith- 
fully to  the  true  values  of  life,  and  sweeping 


A  Speech  Day  271 

aside  with  a  courageous  hand  the  false  glow 
and  glamour  of  the  world.  We  did  not  like 
to  applaud  at  this,  but  we  made  a  subdued 
drumming  with  our  heels,  and  uttered  a  sort 
of  murmurous  assent  to  a  noble  and  far  from 
obvious  proposition. 

But  here  again  I  felt  that  the  thing  was 
somehow  not  quite  as  high-minded  as  it 
seemed.  The  goal  designated  was,  after  all, 
the  goal  of  success.  It  was  not  suggested  that 
the  unrewarded  and  self-denying  life  was  per- 
haps the  noblest.  The  point  was  to  come  to 
the  front  somehow,  and  it  was  only  indicating 
a  sort  of  waiting  game  for  the  boys  who  were 
conscious  neither  of  intellectual  nor  athletic 
capacity.  It  was  a  sort  of  false  socialism, 
this  pretence  of  moral  equality,  a  kind  of  con- 
solation prize  that  was  thus  emphasised.  And 
I  felt  that  here  again  the  assumption  was  an 
untrue  one.  That  is  the  worst  of  life,  if  one 
examines  it  closely,  that  it  is  by  no  means 
wholly  run  on  moral  lines.  It  is  strength  that 
is  rewarded,  rather  than  good  desires.  The 
Bishop  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  ancient 
maxim  that  prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the 
Old  Testament,  and  affliction  the  blessing  of 


2  72  At  Large 

the  New.  These  qualities  that  were  going  to 
produce  ultimate  success — conscientiousness, 
generosity,  modesty,  public  spirit — they  are, 
after  all,  as  much  gifts  as  any  other  gifts  of 
intellect  and  bodily  skill.  How  often  has  one 
seen  boys  who  are  immodest,  idle,  frivolous, 
mean-spirited,  and  ungenerous  attain  to  the 
opposite  virtues?  Not  often,  I  confess.  Who 
does  not  know  of  abundant  instances  of  hoys 
who  have  been  selfish,  worthless,  grasping,  un- 
principled, who  have  yet  achieved  success 
intellectually  and  athletically,  and  have  also 
done  well  for  themselves,  amassed  money,  and 
obtained  positions  for  themselves  in  after  life. 
Looking  back  on  my  own  school  days,  I  can- 
not honestly  say  that  the  prizes  of  life  have 
fallen  to  the  pure-minded,  affectionate,  high- 
principled  boys.  The  boys  I  remember  who 
have  achieved  conspicuous  success  in  the 
world  have  been  hard-hearted,  prudent,  hon- 
ourable characters  with  a  certain  superficial 
donhomie,  who  by  a  natural  instinct  did  the 
things  that  paid.  Stripped  of  its  rhetoric,  the 
Bishop's  address  resolved  itself  into  a  panegyr- 
ic of  success,  and  the  morality  of  it  was  that 
if   you    could    not    achieve    intellectual    and 


A  Speech  Day  273 

athletic  prominence,  you  miglit  get  a  certain 
degree  of  credit  by  unostentatious  virtue. 
What  I  felt  was  that  somehow  the  goal  pro- 
posed was — dare  I  hint  it? — a  vulgar  one; 
that  it  was  a  glorification  of  prudence  and 
good-humoured  self-interest;  and  yet  if  the 
Bishop  had  preached  the  gospel  of  disinter- 
estedness and  quiet  faithfulness  and  devotion, 
he  would  have  had  few  enthusiastic  hearers. 
If  he  had  said  that  an  awkward  and  surly 
manner,  no  matter  what  virtues  it  concealed, 
was  the  greatest  bar  to  ultimate  mundane  suc- 
cess, it  would  have  been  quite  true,  though 
perhaps  not  particularly  edifying.  But  what 
I  desired  was  not  startling  paradox  or  cynical 
comment,  but  something  more  really  manly, 
more  just,  more  unconventional,  more  ardent, 
more  disinterested.  The  boys  were  not  ex- 
horted to  care  for  beautiful  things  for  the 
sake  of  their  beauty ;  but  to  care  for  attractive 
things  for  the  sake  of  their  acceptability. 

And  yet  in  a  way  it  did  us  all  good  to  listen 
to  the  great  man.  He  was  so  big  and  kindly 
and  fatherly  and  ingenuous;  he  had  made  vir 
tue  pay;  I  do  not  suppose  he  had  ever  had  a 
low  or  an  impure  or  a  spiteful  thought;  but 


274  At  Large 

his  path  had  been  easy  from  the  first;  he  was 
a  scholar  and  an  athlete,  and  he  had  never 
pursued  success,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it 
had  fallen  from  heaven  like  manna  round 
about  his  dwelling,  with  perhaps  a  few  dozen 
quails  as  well!  Boys,  parents,  masters,  young 
and  old  alike,  were  assembled  that  day  to  wor- 
ship success,  and  the  Bishop  prophesied  good 
concerning  them.  It  entered  no  one's  head 
that  success,  in  its  simplest  analysis,  means 
thrusting  some  one  else  aside  from  a  place 
which  he  desires  to  fill.  But  why  on  such  a 
day  should  one  think  of  the  feelings  of  others? 
we  were  all  bent  on  virtuously  gratifying  our 
own  desires.  The  boys  who  were  left  out  were 
the  weak  and  the  timid,  the  ailing  and  the 
erring,  the  awkward  and  the  unpopular,  the 
clumsy  and  the  stupid;  they  were  not  bidden 
to  take  courage,  they  were  rather  bidden  to 
envy  the  unattainable,  and  to  submit  with 
such  grace  as  they  could  muster.  But  we 
pushed  all  such  vague  and  unsatisfactory 
thoughts  in  the  background;  we  sounded  the 
clarion  and  filled  the  fife,  and  were  at  ease  in 
Zion,  while  we  worshipped  the  great,  brave, 
glittering  world. 


A  Speech  Day  275 

What  I  desired  was  that,  in  the  height  of 
our  jubilant  self-gratulation,  some  sweet  and 
gracious  figure,  full  of  heavenly  wisdom,  could 
have  twitched  the  gaudy  curtain  aside  for  a 
moment  and  shown  us  other  things  than  these; 
who  could  have  assured  us  that  we  all,  how- 
ever stupid  and  dreary  and  awkward  and 
indolent,  however  vexed  with  low  dreams 
and  ugly  temptations,  yet  had  our  share  and 
place  in  the  rich  inheritance  of  life;  and  that 
even  if  it  was  to  be  all  a  record  of  dull  failure, 
commonplace  sinfulness,  cheered  by  no  joyful 
triumph,  no  friendly  smile — yet  if  we  fought 
the  fault  and  did  the  dull  task  faithfully,  and 
desired  to  be  but  a  little  better,  a  little 
stronger,  a  little  more  unselfish,  that  the  pil- 
grimage with  all  its  sandy  tracts  and  terrify- 
ing spectres  would  not  be  traversed  in  vain ;  and 
then  I  think  we  might  have  been  brought  to- 
gether with  a  sense  of  sweeter  and  truer  unity, 
and  might  have  thought  of  life  as  a  thing  to 
be  shared,  and  joy  as  a  thing  to  be  lavished, 
and  not  have  rather  conceived  of  the  world  as 
a  place  full  of  fine  things,  of  which  we  were  all 
to  gather  sedulously  as  many  as  we  could 
grasp  and  retain. 


276  At  Large 

Or  even  if  the  good  Bishop  had  taken  a 
simpler  line  and  told  the  boys  some  old  story, 
like  the  story  of  Polycrates  of  Samos,  I  should 
have  been  more  comfortable.  Polycrates  was 
the  tyrant  with  whom  everything  went  well 
that  he  set  his  hand  to,  so  that  to  avoid  the 
punishment  of  undue  prosperity  he  threw  his 
great  signet-ring  into  the  sea ;  but  when  he  was 
served  a  day  or  two  later  with  a  slice  of  fish 
at  his  banquet,  there  was  the  ring  sticking 
in  its  ribs.  The  Bishop  might  have  said  that 
this  should  teach  us  not  to  try  and  seize  all 
the  good  things  we  could,  and  that  the  reason 
of  it  was  not,  as  the  old  Greeks  thought,  that 
the  gods  envied  the  prosperity  of  mortals,  but 
that  our  prosperity  was  often  dashed  very 
wisely  and  tenderly  from  our  lips,  because  one 
of  the  worst  foes  that  a  man  can  have,  one  of 
the  most  blinding  and  bewildering  of  faults, 
is  the  sense  of  self-sufficiency  and  security. 
That  would  not  have  spoilt  the  pleasure  of 
those  brisk  boys,  but  would  have  given  them 
something  wholesome  to  take  away  and 
think  about,  like  the  prophet's  roll  that 
was  sweet  in  the  mouth  and  bitter  in  the 
belly. 


A  Speech  Day  277 

It  may  be  thought  that  I  have  thus  dilated 
on  the  Bishop's  address  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  showing  what  a  much  better  address  I  could 
have  made.  That  is  not  the  case  at  all.  I 
could  not  have  done  the  thing  at  all  to  start 
with,  and,  given  both  the  nerve  and  the  pres- 
ence and  the  practice  of  the  man,  I  could  not 
have  done  it  a  quarter  as  well,  because  he  was 
in  tune  with  his  audience  and  I  should  not 
have  been.  That  was  to  me  part  of  the  trag- 
edy. The  Bishop's  voice  fell  heavily  and 
steadily,  like  a  stream  of  water  from  a  great 
iron  pipe  that  fills  a  reservoir.  The  audience, 
too,  were  all  in  the  most  elementary  mood. 
Boys  of  course  frankly  desire  success  without 
any  disguise.  And  parents  less  frankly  but 
no  less  hungrily,  in  an  almost  tigerish  way, 
desire  it  for  their  children.  The  intensity  of 
belief  felt  by  a  parent  in  a  stupid  or  even  vi- 
cious boy  would  be  one  of  the  most  pathetic 
things  I  know,  if  it  were  not  also  one  of  the 
primal  forces  of  the  world. 

And  thus  the  tide  being  high  the  Bishop 
went  into  harbour  at  the  top  of  the  flood.  I 
don't  even  complain  of  the  nature  of  the  ad- 
dress; it  was  frankly  worldly,  such  as  might 


278  At  Large 

have  been  given  by  a  Sadducee  in  the  time  of 
Christ.  But  the  interesting  thing  about  it 
was  that  most  of  the  people  present  believed 
it  to  be  an  ethical  and  even  a  religious  ad- 
dress. It  was  the  ethic  of  a  professional 
bowler  and  the  religion  of  a  banker.  If  a  boy 
had  been  for  all  intents  and  purposes  a  pro- 
fessional bowler  to  the  age  of  twenty-three,  and 
a  professional  banker  afterwards,  he  would 
almost  exactly  have  fulfilled  the  Bishop's  ideal. 
I  do  not  think  it  is  a  bad  ideal  either.  I  only 
say  that  it  is  not  an  exalted  ideal,  and  it  is 
not  a  Christian  ideal.  It  is  the  world  in  dis- 
guise,  the  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  over  again. 
We  were  taken  in.  We  said  to  ourselves, 
"  This  is  an  animal  certainly  clothed  as  a 
sheep — and  we  must  remember  the  old  pro- 
verb and  be  careful."  But  as  the  Bishop's 
address  proceeded,  and  the  fragrant  oil  fell 
down  to  the  skirts  of  our  clothing,  we  said, 
"  There  is  certainly  a  sheep  inside." 

Then  a  choir  of  strong,  rough,  boyish  voices 
sang  an  old  glee  or  two — "  Glorious  Apollo  " 
and  "  Hail  smiling  Morn,"  and  a  school  song 
about  the  old  place  that  made  some  of  us  bite 
our  lips  and  furtively  brush   away  an  unex- 


A  Speech  Day  279 

pected  and  inexplicable  moisture  from  our 
eyes,  at  the  thought  of  the  fine  fellows  we  had 
ourselves  sat  side  by  side  with  thirty  and 
forty  years  ago,  now  scattered  to  all  ends  of 
the  earth,  and  some  of  them  gone  from  the 
here  to  the  everywhere,  as  the  poet  says.  And 
then  we  adjourned  to  see  the  School  Corps  in- 
spected— such  solemn  little  soldiers,  marching 
past  in  their  serviceable  uniforms,  the  line 
rising  and  falling  with  the  inequalities  of  the 
ground,  and  bowing  out  a  good  deal  in  the 
centre,  at  the  very  moment  that  the  good-na- 
tured old  Colonel  was  careful  to  look  the  other 
way.  Then  there  was  a  leisurely  game  of 
cricket,  with  a  lot  of  very  old  boys  playing 
with  really  amazing  agility;  and  then  I  fell 
in  with  an  old  acquaintance,  and  we  strolled 
about  together,  and  got  a  friendly  master  to 
show  us  over  the  schoolrooms  and  one  of  the 
houses,  and  admired  the  excellent  arrange- 
ments, and  peeped  into  some  studies  crowded 
with  pleasant  boyish  litter,  and  talked  to  some 
of  the  boys  with  an  attempt  at  light  juvenility, 
and  enjoyed  ourselves  in  a  thoroughly  absurd 
and  leisurely  fashion.  And  then  I  was  left 
alone,  and  walking  about,  abandoned  myself 


28o  At  Large 

to  sentiment  pnre  and  simple;  it  was  hard  to 
analyse  that  feeling  which  was  stirred  by  the 
sight  of  all  those  fresh-faced  boys,  flowing  like 
a  stream  through  the  old  buildings,  and  just 
leaving  their  own  little  mark,  for  good  or  evil, 
on  the  place — a  painted  name  on  an  Honours 
board,  initials  cut  in  desk  or  panel,  a  memory 
or  two,  how  soon  to  grow  dim  in  the  minds 
of  the  new  generation,  who  would  be  so  full 
of  themselves  and  of  the  present,  turning  the 
sweet-scented  manuscript  of  youth  with  such 
eager  fingers,  that  they  could  give  but  little 
thought  to  the  future  and  none  at  all  to  the 
past.  And  then  one  remembered,  with  a  curi- 
ous sense  of  wistful  pain,  how  rapidly  the 
cards  of  life  were  being  dealt  out  to  one,  and 
how  long  it  was  since  one  had  played  the  card 
of  youth  so  heedlessly  and  joyfully  away;  that 
at  least  could  not  return.  And  then  there 
came  the  thought  of  all  the  hope  and  love  that 
centred  upon  these  children,  and  all  the  pos- 
sibilities which  lay  before  them.  And  I  began 
to  think  of  my  own  contemporaries  and  of 
how  little  on  the  whole  they  had  done;  it  was 
not  fair  perhaps  to  say  that  most  of  them 
had  made  a  mess  of  their  lives,  because  they 


A  Speech  Day  281 

were  honest,  honourable  citizens  many  of 
them.  It  was  not  the  poor  thing  called  suc- 
cess that  I  was  thinking  of,  but  a  sort  of 
high-hearted  and  generous  dealing  with  life, 
making  the  most  of  one's  faculties  and  quali- 
ties, diffusing  a  glow  of  love  and  enthu- 
siasm and  brave  zest  about  one — how  few  of 
us  had  done  that!  We  had  grown  indolent 
and  money-loving  and  commonplace.  Some  of 
those  we  looked  to  to  redeem  and  glorify  the 
world  had  failed  most  miserably,  through  un- 
checked faults  of  temperament.  Some  had 
declined  with  a  sort  of  unambitious  comfort; 
some  had  fallen  into  the  trough  of  Toryism, 
and  spent  their  time  in  holding  fast  to  conven- 
tional and  established  things;  one  or  two  had 
flown  like  Icarus  so  near  the  sun  that  their 
waxen  wings  had  failed  them;  and  yet  some 
of  us  had  missed  greatness  by  so  little.  Was 
it  to  be  always  so?  Was  it  always  to  be  a 
battle  against  hopeless  odds?  Was  defeat, 
earlier  or  later,  inevitable?  The  tamest  de- 
feat of  all  was  to  lapse  smoothly  into  easy 
conventional  ways,  to  adopt  the  standards  of 
the  world,  and  rake  together  contentedly  and 
seriously  the  straws  and   dirt  of  the  street. 


282  At  Large 

If  that  was  to  be  the  destiny  of  most,  why 
were  we  haunted  in  youth  with  the  sight  of 
that  cloudy,  gleaming  crown  within  our  reach, 
that  sense  of  romance,  that  phantom  of  no- 
bleness? What  was  the  significance  of  the 
aspirations  that  made  the  heart  beat  high  on 
fresh  sunlit  mornings,  the  dim  and  beautiful 
hopes  that  came  beckoning  as  we  looked  from 
our  windows  in  a  sunset  hour,  with  the  sky 
flushing  red  behind  the  old  towers,  the  sense 
of  illimitable  power,  of  stainless  honour,  that 
came  so  bravely,  when  the  organ  bore  the 
voices  aloft  in  the  lighted  chapel  at  evensong? 
Was  all  that  not  a  real  inspiration  at  all,  but 
a  mere  accident  of  boyish  vigour?  No,  it  was 
not  a  delusion — that  was  life  as  it  was  meant 
to  be  lived,  and  the  best  victory  was  to  keep 
that  hope  alive  in  the  heart  amid  a  hundred 
failures,  a  thousand  cares. 

As  I  walked  thus  full  of  fancies,  the  boys 
singly  or  in  groups  kept  passing  me,  smiling, 
full  of  delighted  excitement  and  chatter,  all 
intent  on  themselves  and  their  companions. 
I  heard  scraps  of  their  talk,  inconsequent 
names,  accompanied  with  downright  praise  or 
blame,  unintelligible  exploits,  happy  nonsense. 


A  Speech  Day  283 

How  odd  it  is  to  note  that  when  we  Anglo- 
Saxons  are  at  our  happiest  and  most  cheerful, 
we  expend  so  much  of  our  steam  in  frank  de- 
rision of  each  other !  Yet  though  I  can  hardly 
remember  a  single  conversation  of  my  school 
days,  the  thought  of  my  friendships  and  alli- 
ances is  all  gilt  with  a  sense  of  delightful 
eagerness.  Now  that  I  am  a  writer  of  books, 
it  matters  even  more  how  I  say  a  thing  than 
what  I  say.  But  then  it  was  the  other  way. 
It  was  what  we  felt  that  mattered,  and  talk  was 
but  the  sparkling  outflow  of  trivial  thought. 
What  heroes  we  made  of  sturdy,  unemphatic 
boys,  how  we  repeated  each  other's  jokes, 
what  merciless  critics  we  were  of  each  other, 
how  little  allowance  we  made  for  weakness  or 
oddity,  how  easily  we  condoned  all  faults  in 
one  who  was  good-humoured  and  strong! 
How  the  little  web  of  intrigue  and  gossip,  of 
likes  and  dislikes,  wove  and  unwove  itself! 
What  hopeless  Tories  we  were!  How  we  stood 
upon  our  rights  and  privileges!  I  have  few 
illusions  as  to  the  innocence  or  the  justice  or 
the  generosity  of  boyhood;  what  boys  really 
admire  are  grace  and  effectiveness  and  readi- 
ness.    And  yet,  looking  back,  one  has  parted 


284  At  Large 

with  something,  a  sort  of  zest  and  intensity 
that  one  would  fain  have  retained.  I  felt  that 
I  would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to  have 
communicated  a  few  of  the  hard  lessons  of 
experience  that  I  have  learnt  by  my  errors  and 
mistakes,  to  these  jolly  youngsters;  but  there 
again  comes  in  the  pathos  of  boyhood,  that  one 
can  make  no  one  a  present  of  experience,  and 
that  virtue  cannot  be  communicated,  or  it 
ceases  to  be  virtue.  They  were  bound,  all 
those  ingenuous  creatures,  to  make  their  own 
blunders,  and  one  could  not  save  them  a  single 
one,  for  all  one's  hankering  to  help.  That 
is  of  course  the  secret,  that  we  are  here  for 
the  sake  of  experience,  and  not  for  the  sake 
of  easy  happiness.  Yet  one  would  keep  the 
hearts  of  these  boys  pure  and  untarnished  and 
strong,  if  one  could,  though  even  as  one 
walked  among  them  one  could  see  faces  on 
which  temptation  and  sin  had  already  written 
itself  in  legible  signs. 

The  cricket  drew  to  an  end;  the  shadows 
began  to  lengthen  on  the  turf.  The  mimic 
warriors  were  disbanded.  The  tea-fables 
made  their  appearance  under  the  elms,  where 
one  was  welcomed  and  waited  upon  by  cheer- 


A  Speech  Day  285 

ful  matrons  and  neat  maid-servants,  and  de- 
lightfully zealous  and  inefficient  boys.  One 
had  but  to  express  a  preference  to  have  half- 
a-dozen  plates  pressed  upon  one  by  smiling 
Ganymedes.  If  schools  cannot  alter  char- 
acter, they  certainly  can  communicate  to  our 
cheerful  English  boys  the  most  delightful 
manners  in  the  worldj  so  unembarrassed,  cour- 
teous, easy,  graceful,  without  the  least  touch 
of  exaggeration  or  self-consciousness.  I  sup- 
pose one  has  insular  prejudices,  for  we  are  cer- 
tainly not  looked  upon  as  models  of  courtesy 
or  consideration  by  our  Continental  neigh- 
bours. I  suppose  we  reserve  our  best  for  our- 
selves. I  expressed  a  wish  to  look  at  some 
of  the  new  buildings,  and  a  young  gentleman 
of  prepossessing  exterior  became  my  unaf- 
fected cicerone.  He  was  not  one  who  dealt 
in  adjectives;  his  highest  epithet  of  praise 
was  "  pretty  decent,"  but  one  detected  an 
honest  and  unquestioning  pride  in  the  place 
for  all  that. 

Perhaps  the  best  point  of  all  about  these 
schools  of  ours,  is  that  the  aspect  of  the  place 
and  the  tone  of  the  dwellers  in  it  does  not 
vary  appreciably  on  days  of  festival  and  on 


286  At  Large 

working  days.  The  beauty  of  it  is  a  little 
focussed  and  smartened,  but  that  is  all.  There 
is  no  covering  up  of  deficiencies  or  hiding  de- 
solation out  of  sight.  If  one  goes  down  to  a 
public-school  on  an  ordinary  day,  one  finds 
the  same  brave  life,  the  same  unembarrassed 
courtesy  prevailing.  There  is  no  sense  of  be- 
ing taken  by  surprise;  the  life  is  all  open  to 
inspection  on  any  day  and  at  any  hour.  We 
do  not  reserve  ourselves  for  occasions  in  Eng- 
land. The  meat  cuts  wholesomely  and  pleas- 
antly wherever  it  is  sampled. 

The  disadvantage  of  this  is  that  we  are  mis- 
judged by  foreigners  because  we  are  seen,  not 
at  our  best,  but  as  we  are.  We  do  not  feel 
the  need  of  recommending  ourselves  to  the 
favourable  consideration  of  others;  not  that 
that  is  a  virtue,  it  is  rather  the  shadow  of 
complacency  and  patriotism. 

But  at  last  a  feeling  begins  to  arise  in  the 
minds  both  of  hosts  and  guests  that  the  play 
is  played  out  for  the  day,  that  the  little  fes- 
tivity is  over.  On  the  part  of  our  hosts  that 
feeling  manifests  itself  in  a  tendency  to  press 
departing  guests  to  stay  a  little  longer.  An 
old  acquaintance  of  mine,  a  shy  man,  once 


A  Speech  Day  287 

gave  a  large  garden-party  and  had  a  band  to 
play.  He  did  his  best  for  a  time  and  times 
and  half-a-time;  but  at  last  he  began  to  feel 
that  the  strain  was  becoming  intolerable. 
With  desperate  ingenuity  he  sought  out  the 
band-master,  told  him  to  leave  out  the  rest  of 
the  programme,  and  play  "  God  Save  the 
King," — the  result  being  a  furious  exodus  of 
his  guests.  To-day  no  such  device  is  needed. 
We  melt  away,  leaving  our  kind  entertainers 
to  the  pleasant  weariness  that  comes  of  sus- 
tained geniality,  and  to  the  sense  that  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  days  have  to  elapse 
before  the  next  similar  festival. 

And,  for  myself,  I  carry  away  with  me  a 
gracious  memory  of  a  day  thrilled  by  a  variety 
of  conflicting  and  profound  emotions;  and  if 
I  feel  that  perhaps  life  would  be  both  easier 
and  simpler,  if  we  could  throw  off  a  little  more 
of  our  conventional  panoply  of  thought,  could 
face  our  problems  with  a  little  more  candour 
and  directness,  yet  I  have  had  a  glimpse  of  a 
community  living  an  eager,  full,  vigorous  life, 
guarded  by  sufficient  discipline  to  keep  the 
members  of  it  wholesomely  and  honourably 
obedient,  and  yet  conceding  as  much  personal 


288  At  Large 

liberty  of  thought  and  action  as  the  general 
interest  of  the  body  can  admit.  I  have  seen  a 
place  full  of  high  possibilities  and  hopes,  be- 
stowing a  treasure  of  bright  memories  of  work, 
of  play,  of  friendship,  upon  the  majority  of 
its  members,  and  upholding  a  Spartan  ideal 
of  personal  subordination  to  the  common 
weal,  an  ideal  not  enforced  by  law  so  much 
as  sustained  by  honour,  an  institution  which, 
if  it  does  not  encourage  originality,  is  yet  a 
sound  reflection  of  national  tendencies,  and 
one  in  which  the  men  who  work  it  devote 
themselves  unaffectedly  and  ungrudgingly  to 
the  interests  of  the  place,  without  sentiment 
perhaps,  but  without  ostentation  or  priggish- 
ness.  A  place  indeed  to  which  one  would 
wish  perhaps  to  add  a  certain  intellectual 
stimulus,  a  mental  liberty,  yet  from  which 
there  is  little  that  one  would  desire  to  take 
away.  For  if  one  would  like  to  see  our  schools 
strengthened,  amplified,  and  expanded,  yet  one 
jWOuld  wish  the  process  to  continue  on  the 
existing  lines,  and  not  on  a  different  method. 
So,  in  our  zeal  for  cultivating  the  further 
hope,  let  us  who  would  fain  see  a  purer  stand- 
ard of  morals,  a  more  vigorous  intellectual 


A  Speech  Day  289 

life  prevail  in  our  schools,  not  overlook  the 
marvellous  progress  that  is  daily  and  hourly 
being  made,  and  keep  the  taint  of  fretful  in- 
gratitude out  of  our  designs;  and  meanwhile 
let  us,  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  Psalm,  wish 
Jerusalem  prosperity  "  for  our  brethren  and 
companions'  sakes." 


XIII 

Literary  Finish 

I  HAD  two  literary  men  staying  with  me  a 
*  week  ago,  both  of  them  accomplished 
writers,  and  interested  in  their  art,  not  pro- 
fessionally and  technically  only,  but  ardently 
and  enthusiastically.  I  here  label  them  re- 
spectively Musgrave  and  Herries.  Musgrave 
is  a  veteran  writer,  a  man  of  fifty,  who  makes 
a  considerable  income  by  writing,  and  has 
succeeded  in  many  departments — biography, 
criticism,  poetry,  essay-writing;  he  lacks,  how- 
ever, the  creative  and  imaginative  gift;  his 
observation  is  acute,  and  his  humour  consid- 
able;  but  he  cannot  infer  and  deduce;  he 
cannot  carry  a  situation  further  than  he  can 
see  it.  Herries  on  the  other  hand  is  a  much 
younger  man,  with  an  interest  in  human  be- 
ings that  is  emotional  rather  than  spectacu- 
lar; while  Musgrave  is  interested  mainly  in 
290 


Literary  Finish  291 

the  present,  Herries  lives  in  the  past  or  the 
future.  Musgrave  sees  what  people  do  and 
how  they  behave,  while  Herries  is  for  ever 
thinking  how  they  must  have  behaved  to 
produce  their  present  conditions,  or  how  they 
would  be  likely  to  act  under  different  condi- 
tions. Musgrave's  one  object  is  to  discover 
what  he  calls  the  truth;  Herries  thrives  and 
battens  upon  illusions.  Musgrave  is  fond  of 
the  details  of  life,  loves  food  and  drink,  con- 
viviality and  social  engagements,  new  people 
and  unfamiliar  places — Herries  is  quite  in- 
different to  the  garniture  of  life,  lives  in  great 
personal  discomfort,  dislikes  mixed  assemblies 
and  chatter,  and  has  a  fastidious  dislike  of  the 
present,  whatever  it  is,  from  a  sense  that 
possibilities  are  so  much  richer  than  perform- 
ances. Musgrave  admits  that  he  has  been 
more  successful  as  a  writer  than  he  deserves; 
Herries  is  likely,  I  think,  to  disappoint  the 
hopes  of  his  friends,  and  will  not  do  justice 
to  his  extraordinary  gifts,  from  a  certain 
dreaminess  and  lack  of  vitality.  Musgrave 
loves  the  act  of  writing,  and  is  always  full  to 
the  brim  of  matter.  Herries  dislikes  com- 
position, and  is  yet  drawn  to  it  by  a  sense  of 


292  At  Large 

fearful  responsibility.  Neither  has,  fortu- 
nately, the  least  artistic  jealousy,  Herries  re- 
gards a  man  like  Musgrave  with  a  sort  of 
incredulous  stupefaction,  as  a  stream  of  inex- 
plicable volume.  Herries  has  to  Musgrave  all 
the  interest  of  a  very  delicate  and  beautiful 
tj'pe,  whose  fastidiousness  he  can  almost  envy. 
As  a  rule,  literary  men  will  not  discuss  their 
art  among  themselves;  they  have  generally 
arrived  at  a  sort  of  method  of  their  own,  which 
may  not  be  ideal,  but  which  is  the  best  practi- 
cal solution  for  themselves,  and  they  would 
rather  not  be  disquieted  about  it;  literary 
talk,  too,  tends  to  partake  of  the  nature  of 
shop,  and  busy  men,  as  a  rule,  like  to  talk  the 
shop  of  their  recreations  rather  than  the  shop 
of  their  employment.  But  Musgrave  will  dis- 
cuss anything;  and  as  for  Herries,  writing  is 
not  an  occupation  so  much  as  a  divine  voca- 
tion which  he  regards  with  a  holy  awe. 

The  discussion  began  at  dinner,  and  I  was 
amused  to  see  how  it  affected  the  two  men. 
Musgrave,  by  an  incredible  mental  agility,  con- 
trived to  continue  to  take  a  critical  interest 
in  the  meal  and  the  argument  at  the  same 
time;  Herries  thrust  away  an  unfinished  plate. 


Literary  Finish  293 

refused  what  was  offered  to  him,  pushed  his 
glasses  about  as  if  they  were  chessmen,  filled 
the  nearest  with  water  at  intervals — he  is  a 
rigid  teetotaller — and  drank  out  of  them  al- 
ternately with  an  abstracted  air. 

The  point  was  the  question  of  literary  fin- 
ish, and  the  degree  to  which  it  can  or  ought 
to  be  practised.  Herries  is  of  the  school  of 
Flaubert,  and  holds  that  there  may  be  several 
ways  of  saying  a  thing,  but  only  one  best 
way,  and  that  it  is  alike  the  duty  and  the 
goal  of  the  writer  to  find  that  way.  This  he 
enunciated  with  some  firmness. 

"  No,"  said  Musgrave,  "  I  think  that  is  only 
a  theory,  and  breaks  down,  as  all  theories  do, 
when  it  is  put  in  practice:  look  at  all  the 
really  big  writers:  look  at  Shakespeare — to 
me  his  work  gives  the  impression  of  being  both 
hasty  and  uncorrected.  If  he  says  a  thing  in 
one  way,  and  while  he  is  doing  it  thinks  of  a 
more  telling  form  of  expression,  he  does  n't 
erase  the  first  statement ;  he  merely  says  it  over 
again  more  effectively.  He  is  full  of  lapses 
and  inappropriate  passages — and  it  is  that 
very  thing  which  gives  him  such  an  air  of 
reality." 


294  At  Large 

"  Well,  there  is  a  good  deal  in  that,"  said 
Herries,  "  but  I  do  not  see  how  you  are  going 
to  prove  that  it  is  not  deliberate.  Shakespeare 
wrote  like  that  in  his  plays,  breathlessly  and 
eagerly,  because  that  was  the  aim  he  had  in 
view;  if  he  makes  one  of  his  people  say  a 
thing  tamely,  and  then  more  pointedly,  it  is 
because  it  is  exactly  what  people  do  in  real 
life,  and  Shakespeare  was  thinking  with  their 
mind  for  the  time  being.  He  is  behind  the 
person  he  has  made,  moving  his  arms,  looking 
through  his  eyes,  breathing  through  his 
mouth;  and  just  as  life  itself  is  hurried  and 
inconsequent,  so  the  perfection  of  art  is,  not 
to  be  hurried  and  inconsequent,  but  to  give 
one  the  impression  of  being  so.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  left  his  work  uncorrected  out  of  mere 
impatience.  Look  at  the  way  he  wrote  when 
he  was  writing  in  a  different  manner — look  at 
the  Sonnets,  for  instance — there  is  plenty  of 
calculated  art  there !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  there  is  art  there,  but  I  don't 
think  it  is  very  deliberate  art.  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  were  written  slowly.  Of  course  one 
can  hardly  be  breathless  in  a  sonnet.  The 
rhymes  are  all  stretched  across  the  ground,  like 


Literary  Finish  295 

wires,  and  one  has  to  pick  one's  way  among 
them." 

"  Well,  take  another  instance,"  said  Mus- 
grave.  "  Look  at  Scott.  He  speaks  himself 
of  his  *  hurried  frankness  of  execution.'  His 
proof-sheets  are  the  most  extraordinary  things, 
full  of  impossible  sentences,  lapses  of  gram- 
mar, and  so  forth.  He  did  not  do  much 
correcting  himself,  but  I  believe  I  am  right 
in  saying  that  his  publishers  did,  and  spent 
hours  in  reducing  the  chaos  to  order." 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  don't  deny,"  said  Herries, 
"  that  volume  and  vitality  are  what  matters 
most.  Scott's  imagination  was  at  once  prodi- 
gious and  profound.  He  seems  to  me  to  have 
said  to  his  creations,  '  Let  the  young  men  now 
arise  and  play  before  us.'  But  I  don't  think 
his  art  was  the  better  for  his  carelessness. 
Great  and  noble  as  the  result  was,  I  think  it 
would  have  been  greater  if  he  had  taken  more 
pains.  Of  course  one  regards  men  of  genius 
like  Scott  and  Shakespeare  with  a  kind  of 
terror — one  can  forgive  them  anything;  but 
it  is  because  they  do  by  a  sort  of  prodigal  in- 
stinct what  most  people  have  to  do  by  painful 
effort.    If  one's  imagination  has  the  poignant 


296  At  Large 

Tightness  of  Scott's  or  Shakespeare's,  one's 
hurried  work  is  better  than  most  people's 
finished  work.  But  people  of  lesser  force  and 
power,  if  they  get  their  stitches  wrong,  have 
to  unpick  them  and  do  it  all  over  again. 
Sometimes  I  have  an  uneasy  sense,  when  I  am 
writing,  that  my  characters  are  feeling  as  if 
their  clothes  do  not  fit.  Then  they  have  to 
be  undressed,  so  to  speak,  that  one  may  see 
where  the  garments  gall  them.  Now,  take  a 
book  like  Madame  Bovary,  painfully  and 
laboriously  constructed — it  seems  obvious 
enough,  yet  the  more  one  reads  it  the  more  one 
becomes  aware  how  every  stroke  and  detail 
tells.  What  almost  appals  me  about  that 
book  is  the  way  in  which  the  end  is  foreseen 
in  the  beginning,  the  way  in  which  Flaubert 
seems  to  have  carried  the  whole  thing  in  his 
head  all  the  time,  to  have  known  exactly  where 
he  was  going  and  how  fast  he  was  going," 

"That  is  perfectly  true,"  I  said.  "But 
take  an  instance  of  another  of  Flaubert's 
books,  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet,  where  the  same 
method  is  pursued  with  what  I  can  only  call 
deplorable  results.  Every  detail  is  perfect  of 
its   kind.     The   two  grotesque   creatures   take 


Literary  Finish  297 

up  one  pursuit  after  another,  agriculture, 
education,  antiquities,  horticulture,  distilling 
perfumes,  making  jam.  In  each  they  make 
exactly  the  absurd  mistakes  that  such  people 
would  have  made;  but  one  loses  all  sense  of 
reality,  because  one  feels  that  they  would  not 
have  taken  up  so  many  things;  it  is  only  a 
collection  of  typical  absurdities.  Given  the 
men  and  the  particular  pursuit,  it  is  all 
natural  enough,  but  one  wearies  of  the  same 
process  being  applied  an  impossible  number  of 
times,  just  as  Flaubert  was  often  so  intoler- 
able in  real  life,  because  he  ran  a  joke  to 
death,  and  never  knew  when  to  put  it  down. 
The  result  in  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet  is  a  lack 
of  proportion  and  subordination.  It  is  like 
one  of  the  early  Pre-Raphaelite  pictures,  in 
which  every  detail  is  painted  with  minute  per- 
fection. It  was  all  there,  no  doubt,  and  it  was 
all  exactly  like  that;  but  that  is  not  how  the 
human  eye  apprehends  a  scene.  The  human 
mind  takes  a  central  point,  and  groups  the 
accessories  round  it.  In  art,  I  think  every- 
thing depends  upon  centralisation.  Two  lov- 
ers part,  and  the  birds'  faint  chirp  from  the 
leafless  tree,  the  smouldering  rim  of  the  sunset 


298  At  Large 

over  misty  fields,  are  true  and  symbolical  parts 
of  the  scene;  but  if  you  deal  in  botany  and 
ornithology  and  meteorology  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, you  cloud  and  dim  the  central  point — 
you  digress  when  you  ought  only  to  emphasise. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Herries  with  a  sigh,  "  that 
is  all  right  enough — it  all  depends  upon  pro- 
portion; and  the  worst  of  all  these  discussions 
on  points  of  art  is  that  each  person  has  to  find 
his  own  standard — one  can't  accept  other  peo- 
ple's standards.  To  me  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet 
is  a  piece  of  almost  flawless  art — it  is  there — 
it  lives  and  breathes.  I  don't  like  it  all,  of 
course,  but  I  don't  doubt  that  it  happened  so. 
There  must  be  an  absolute  rightness  behind 
all  supreme  writing.  Art  must  have  laws  as 
real  and  immutable  and  elaborate  as  those  of 
science  and  metaphysics  and  religion — that  is 
the  central  article  of  my  creed." 

"  But  the  worst  of  that  theory  is,"  I  said, 
"  that  one  lays  down  canons  of  taste,  which 
are  very  neat  and  pretty;  and  then  there 
comes  some  new  writer  of  genius,  knocks  all 
the  old  canons  into  fragments,  and  establishes 
a  new  law.  Canons  of  art  seem  to  me  some- 
times nothing  more  than  classifications  of  the 


Literary  Finish  299 

way  that  genius  works.  I  find  it  very  hard  to 
believe  that  there  is  a  pattern,  so  to  speak, 
for  the  snuffers  and  the  candlesticks,  revealed 
to  Moses  in  the  mount.  It  was  Moses'  idea 
of  a  pair  of  snuffers,  when  all  is  said." 

"  I  entirely  agree,"  said  Musgrave ;  "  the 
only  ultimate  basis  of  all  criticism  is,  '  I  like 
it  because  I  like  it ' — and  the  connoisseurs  of 
any  age  are  merely  the  people  who  have  the 
faculty  of  agreeing,  I  won't  say  with  the  ma- 
jority, but  with  the  majority  of  competent 
critics." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Herries,  raising  his  mourn- 
ful eyes  to  Musgrave's  face,  "  don't  talk  like 
that!  You  take  my  faith  away  from  me. 
Surely  there  must  be  some  central  canon  of 
morality  in  art,  just  as  there  is  in  ethics. 
For  instance,  in  ethics,  is  it  conceivable  that 
cruelty  might  become  right,  if  only  enough 
people  thought  it  was  right?  Is  there  no  ab- 
solute principle  at  all?  In  art,  what  about 
the  great  pictures  and  the  great  poems,  which 
have  approved  themselves  to  the  best  minds 
in  generation  after  generation?  Their  Tight- 
ness and  their  beauty  are  only  attested  by 
critics,  they  are  surely  not  created  by  them? 


300  At  Large 

My  view  is  that  there  is  an  absolute  law  of 
beauty,  and  that  we  grow  nearer  to  it  by 
slow  degrees.  Sometimes,  as  with  the  Greeks, 
people  got  very  near  to  it  indeed.  Is  it  con- 
ceivable, for  instance,  that  men  could  ever 
come  to  regard  the  Venus  of  Milo  as  ugly  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Musgrave,  laughing,  "  I 
suppose  that  if  humanity  developed  on  differ- 
ent lines,  and  a  new  type  of  beauty  became 
desirable,  we  might  come  to  look  upon  the 
Venus  of  Milo  as  a  barbarous  and  savage  kind 
of  object,  a  dreadful  parody  of  what  we  had 
become,  like  a  female  chimpanzee.  To  a  male 
chimpanzee,  the  wrinkled  brow,  the  long 
upper  lip,  the  deeply  indented  lines  from  nose 
to  mouth,  of  a  female  chimpanzee  in  the  prime 
of  adolescence,  is,  I  suppose,  almost  intoler- 
ably dazzling  and  adorable — beauty  can  only 
be  a  relative  thing,  when  all  is  said." 

"  We  are  drifting  away  from  our  point,"  I 
said.  "  The  question  really  is  whether,  as  art 
expands,  the  principles  become  fewer  or  more 
numerous.  My  own  belief  is  that  the  princi- 
ples do  become  fewer,  but  the  varieties  of 
expression  more  numerous.  Keats  tried  to 
sum  it  up  by  saying,  '  Beauty  is  Truth,  Truth 


Literary  Finish  301 

Beauty ; '  but  it  is  not  a  successful  maxim, 
because,  as  a  peevish  philosopher  said,  '  Why 
in  that  case  have  two  words  for  the  same 
thing?'" 

"  But  it  is  true,  in  a  sense,  for  all  that,"  said 
Herries.  "  What  we  have  learnt  is  that  the 
subject  is  of  very  little  importance  in  art — 
it  is  the  expression  that  matters.  Genre 
pictures,  plots  of  novels,  incidents  of  plays — 
they  are  all  rather  elementary  things. 
Flaubert  looked  forward  to  a  time  in  art  when 
there  should  be  no  subjects  at  all,  when  art 
should  aspire  to  the  condition  of  music,  and 
express  the  intangible." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Musgrave,  laughing, 
"  that  that  statement  conveys  nothing  to  me. 
A  painter,  on  that  line,  would  depict  nothing, 
but  simply  produce  a  sort  of  harmony  of 
colour.  A  picture  would  become  simply  a 
texture  of  colour-vibrations.  My  own  view  is 
rather  that  it  is  a  question  of  accurate  ob- 
servation, followed  by  an  extreme  delicacy 
and  suggestiveness  of  expression.  Some  peo- 
ple would  say  that  it  was  all  a  question  of 
reality;  and  that  the  point  is  that  the  writer 
shall   suggest   a   reality   to   his   reader,   even 


302  At  Large 

though  the  picture  he  evoked  in  the  reader's 
mind  was  not  the  same  as  the  picture  in  his 
own  mind — but  that  is  to  me  pure  symbolism." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Herries,  "  and  the  more 
symbolical  that  art  becomes,  the  purer  it  be- 
comes— that  is  precisely  what  I  am  aiming  at." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  that  gives  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  confession.  I  have  never 
really  been  able  to  understand  what  technical 
symbolism  in  art  is.  A  symbol  in  the  plain 
sense  is  something  which  recalls  or  suggests 
to  you  something  else;  and  thus  the  whole  of 
art  is  pure  symbolism.  The  flick  of  colour 
gives  you  a  distant  woodland,  the  phrase  gives 
you  a  scene  or  an  emotion.  Five  printed 
words  ufjon  a  page  makes  one  sufifer  or  re- 
joice imaginatively;  and  my  idea  of  the  most 
perfect  art  is  not  the  art  which  gives  one  a 
sense  of  laborious  finish,  but  the  art  in  which 
you  never  think  of  the  finish  at  all,  but  only 
of  the  thing  described.  The  end  of  efifort  is 
to  conceal  effort,  as  the  old  adage  says. 
Some  people,  I  suppose,  attain  it  through  a 
series  of  misses;  but  the  best  art  of  all  goes 
straight  to  the  heart  of  the  thing." 

"  Yes,"  said  Musgrave,  "  my  own  feeling  is 


Literary  Finish  303 

that  the  mistake  is  to  consider  it  can  only  be 
done  in  one  way.  Each  person  has  his  own 
way;  but  I  agree  in  thinking  that  the  best  art 
is  the  most  efifortless." 

"  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  onlooker, 
perhaps,"  said  Herries,  "but  not  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  craftsman.  The  pleasure 
of  art,  for  the  craftsman,  is  to  see  what  the 
difficulty  was,  and  to  discern  how  the  artist 
triumphed  over  it.  Think  of  the  delightful 
individual  roughness  of  old  work  as  opposed 
to  modern  machine-made  things.  There  is  an 
appropriate  irregularity,  according  to  the 
medium  employed.  The  workmanship  of  a 
gem  is  not  the  same  as  that  of  a  building;  the 
essence  of  the  gem  is  to  be  flawless ;  but  in  the 
building  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  tool-dints, 
like  the  pleasure  of  the  rake-marks  on  the 
gravel  path.  Of  course  music  must  be  flawless 
too — firm,  resolute,  inevitable,  because  the 
medium  demands  it;  but  in  a  big  picture — 
>why,  the  other  day  I  saw  a  great  oil-painting, 
a  noble  piece  of  art — I  came  upon  it  in  the 
Academy,  by  a  side  door  close  upon  it.  The 
background  was  a  great  tangled  mass  of  raw; 
crude  smears,  more  like  coloured  rags  patched 


304  At  Large 

together  than  paint;  but  a  few  paces  off,  the 
whole  melted  into  a  great  river-vallejj  with 
deep  water-meadows  of  summer  grass  and  big 
clumps  of  trees.  That  is  the  perfect  com- 
bination. The  man  knew  exactly  what  he 
wanted — he  got  his  effect — the  structure  was 
complete,  and  yet  there  was  the  added  plea- 
sure of  seeing  how  he  achieved  it.  That  is  the 
kind  of  finish  I  desire." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Musgrave,  "  we  should 
all  agree  about  that;  but  my  feeling  would  be 
that  the  way  to  do  it  is  for  the  artist  to  fill 
himself  to  the  brim  with  the  subject,  and  to 
let  it  burst  out.  I  do  not  at  all  believe  in  the 
painful  pinching  and  pulling  together  of  a 
particular  bit  of  work.  That  sort  of  process 
is  excellent  practice,  but  it  seems  to  me  like 
the  receipt  in  one  of  Edwin  Lear's  Nonsense 
Books  for  making  some  noisome  dish,  into 
which  all  sorts  of  ingredients  of  a  loathsome 
kind  were  to  be  put;  and  the  directions  end 
with  the  words :  '  Serve  up  in  a  cloth,  and 
throw  all  out  of  the  window  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible.' It  is  an  excellent  thing  to  take  all  the 
trouble,  if  you  throw  it  away  when  it  is 
done;  you  will  do  your  next  piece  of  real  work 


Literary  Finish  305 

all  the  better;  but  for  a  piece  of  work  to  have 
the  best  kind  of  vitality,  it  must  flow,  I  be- 
lieve, easily  and  sweetly  from  the  teeming 
mind.  Take  such  a  book  as  Newman's  Apolo- 
gia, written  in  a  few  weeks,  a  piece  of  per- 
fect art — but  then  it  was  written  in  tears." 

"  But  on  the  other  hand,"  said  I,  "  look  at 
Ariosto's  Orlando;  it  took  ten  years  to  write 
and  sixteen  more  to  correct — and  there  is  not 
a  forced  or  a  languid  line  in  the  whole  of  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Musgrave,  "  it  is  true,  of  course, 
that  people  must  do  things  in  their  own  way. 
But,  on  the  whole,  the  best  work  is  done  in 
speed  and  glow,  and  derives  from  that  swift 
handling  a  unity,  a  curve,  that  nothing  else 
can  give.  What  matters  is  to  have  a  clear 
sense  of  structure,  and  that,  at  all  events, 
cannot  be  secured  by  poky  and  fretful  treat- 
ment. That  is  where  intellectual  grasp  comes 
in.  But,  even  so,  it  all  depends  upon  what 
one  likes,  and  I  confess  that  I  like  large 
handling  better  than  perfection  of  detail." 

"  I  believe,"  I  said,  "  that  we  really  all 
agree.  We  all  believe  in  largeness  and  vital- 
ity as  the  essential  qualities.  But  in  the  lesser 
kinds  of  art  there  is  a  delicacy  and  a  perfeo- 


3o6  At  Large 

tion  which  are  appropriate.  An  attention  to 
minutiae  which  the  graving  of  a  gem  or  the 
making  of  a  sonnet  demands  is  out  of  place 
in  a  cathedral  or  an  epic.  We  none  of  us 
would  approve  of  hasty,  slovenly,  clumsy 
work  anywhere;  all  that  is  to  be  demanded 
is  .'that  such  irregularity  as  can  be  detected 
should  not  be  inappropriate  irregularity. 
What  we  disagree  about  is  only  the  precise 
amount  of  finish  which  is  appropriate  to  the 
particular  work.  Musgrave  would  hold,  in 
the  case  of  Flaubert,  that  he  was,  in  his 
novels,  trying  to  give  to  the  cathedral  the 
finish  of  the  gem,  and  polishing  a  colossal 
statue  as  though  it  were  a  tiny  statuette." 

"  Yes,"  said  Herries  mournfully,  "  I  sup- 
pose that  is  right;  though  when  I  read  of 
Flaubert  spending  hours  of  torture  in  the 
search  for  a  single  epithet,  I  do  not  feel  that 
the  sacrifice  was  made  in  vain  if  only  the  re- 
sult was  achieved." 

"But  I,"  said  Musgrave,  "grudge  the  time 
so  spent.  I  would  rather  have  more  less-fin- 
ished work  than  little  exquisite  work — though 
I  suppose  that  we  shall  come  to  the  latter 
sometime,  when  the  treasures  of  art  have  ao- 


Literary  Finish  307 

cumulated  even  more  hopelessly  than  now, 
and  when  nothing  but  perfect  work  will  have 
a  chance  of  recognition.  Then  perhaps  a  man 
will  spend  thirty  years  in  .writing  a  short 
story,  and  twenty  more  in  polishing  it!  But 
at  present  there  is  much  that  is  unsaid  which 
may  well  be  said,  and  I  confess  that  I  do  not 
hanker  after  this  careful  and  troubled  work. 
It  reminds  me  of  the  terrible  story  of  the 
Chinaman  who  spent  fifty  years  in  painting 
a  vase  which  cracked  in  the  furnace.  It  seems 
to  me  like  the  worst  kind  of  waste." 

"  And  I,  on  the  other  hand,"  said  Herries 
gravely,  "  think  that  such  a  life  is  almost  as 
noble  a  one  as  I  can  well  conceive." 

His  words  sounded  to  me  like  a  kind  of  pon- 
tifical blessing  pronounced  at  the  end  of  a 
liturgical  service;  and,  dinner  now  being  over, 
.we  adjourned  to  the  library.  Then  Musgrave 
entertained  us  with  an  account  of  a  squabble 
he  had  lately  had  with  a  certain  editor,  who 
had  commissioned  him  to  write  a  set  of  pa- 
pers on  literary  subjects,  and  then  had  ob- 
jected to  his  treatment.  Musgrave  had 
trailed  his  coat  before  the  unhappy  man,  laid 
traps  for  him  by  dint  of  asking  him  ingenuous 


3o8  At  Large 

questions,  had  written  an  article  elaborately 
constructed  to  parody  derisively  the  editor's 
point  of  view,  had  meekly  submitted  it  as  one 
of  the  series,  and  then,  when  the  harried 
wretch  again  objected,  had  confronted  him  with 
illustrative  extracts  from  his  own  letters.  It 
was  a  mirthful  if  not  a  wholly  good-natured 
performance.  Herries  had  listened  with  ill- 
concealed  disgust,  and  excused  himself  at  the 
end  of  the  recital  on  the  plea  of  work. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Musgrave 
said  with  a  wink :  "  I  am  afraid  my  story  has 
rather  disgusted  our  young  transcendentalist. 
He  has  no  pleasure  in  a  wholesome  row;  he 
thinks  the  whole  thing  vulgar — and  I  believe 
he  is  probably  right;  but  I  can't  live  on  his 
level,  though  I  am  sure  it  is  very  fine  and  all 
that" 

"But  what  do  you  really  think  of  his 
work  ?  "  I  said.  "  It  is  very  promising,  is  n't 
it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Musgrave  reflectively,  "  that  is 
just  what  it  is — he  has  got  a  really  fine  lit- 
erary gift;  but  he  is  too  uncompromising. 
Idealism  in  art  is  a  deuced  fine  thing,  and 
every  now  and  then  there  comes  a  man  who 


Literary  Finish  309 

can  keep  it  up,  and  can  afford  to  do  so.  But 
what  Herries  does  not  understand  is  that 
there  are  two  sides  to  art — the  theory  and  the 
practice.  It  is  just  the  same  with  a  lot  of 
things — education,  for  instance,  and  religion. 
But  the  danger  is  that  the  theorists  become 
pedantic.  They  get  entirely  absorbed  in 
questions  of  form,  and  the  plain  truth  is  that 
however  good  your  form  is,  you  have  got  to 
get  hold  of  your  matter  too.  The  point  after 
all  is  the  application  of  art  to  life,  and  you 
have  got  to  condescend.  Things  of  which  the 
ultimate  end  is  to  affect  human  beings  must 
take  human  beings  into  account.  If  you  aim 
at  appealing  only  to  other  craftsmen,  it  be- 
comes an  erudite  business:  you  become  like  a 
carpenter  who  makes  things  which  are  of  no 
use  except  to  win  the  admiration  of  other  car- 
penters. Of  course  it  may  be  worth  doing  if 
you  are  content  with  indicating  a  treatment 
which  other  people  can  apply  and  popularise. 
But  if  you  isolate  art  into  a  theory  which  has 
no  application  to  life,  you  are  a  savant  and 
not  an  artist.  You  can't  be  an  artist  without 
being  a  man,  and  therefore  I  hold  that  hu- 
manity  comes  first.    I   don't  mean   that  one 


3IO  At  Large 

need  be  vulgar.  Of  course  I  am  a  mere  pro- 
fessional, and  my  primary  aim  is  to  earn  an 
honest  livelihood.  I  frankly  confess  that  I 
don't  pose,  even  to  myself,  as  a  public  bene- 
factor. But  Herries  does  not  care  either  about 
an  income,  or  about  touching  other  people. 
Of  course  I  should  like  to  raise  the  standard. 
I  should  like  to  see  ordinary  people  capable  of 
perceiving  what  is  good  art,  and  not  so  wholly 
at  the  mercy  of  conventional  and  melodra- 
matio  art.  But  Herries  does  not  care  two- 
pence about  that.  He  is  like  the  Calvinist 
who  is  sure  of  his  own  salvation,  has  his  doubts 
about  the  minister,  and  thinks  every  one  else 
irreparably  damned.  As  I  say,  it  is  a  lofty 
sort  of  ideal,  but  it  is  not  a  good  sign  when 
that  sort  of  thing  begins.  The  best  art  of  the 
world — let  us  say  Homer,  Virgil,  Dante, 
Shakespeare — was  contributed  by  people  who 
probably  did  not  think  about  it  as  art  at  all. 
Fancy  Homer  going  in  for  questions  of  form! 
It  is  always,  I  believe,  a  sign  of  decadence 
when  formalism  begins.  It  is  just  like  re- 
ligion, which  starts  with  a  teacher  who  has 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  beauty  of  ho- 
liness; and  then  that  degenerates  into  theo- 


Literary  Finish  311 

logy.  These  young  men  are  to  art  what  the 
theologians  are  to  religion.  They  lose  sight 
of  the  object  of  the  whole  thing  in  codifica- 
tion and  definition.  My  own  idea  of  a  great 
artist  is  a  man  who  finds  beauty  so  hopelessly 
attractive  and  desirable  that  he  can't  restrain 
his  speech.  It  all  has  to  come  out;  he  cannot 
hold  his  peace.  And  then  a  number  of  people 
begin  to  see  that  it  was  what  they  had  been 
vaguely  admiring  and  desiring  all  the  time; 
and  then  a  few  highly  intellectual  people  think 
that  they  can  analyse  it,  and  produce  the  same 
effects  by  applying  their  analysis.  It  can't  be 
done  so;  art  must  have  a  life  of  its  own." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  think  you  are  right. 
Herries  is  ascetic  and  eremitical — a  beautiful 
thing  in  many  ways;  but  there  is  no  trans- 
mission of  life  in  such  art;  it  is  a  sterile  thing 
after  all,  a  seedless  flower." 

"  Let  us  express  the  vulgar  hope,"  said  Mus- 
grave,  "  that  he  may  fall  in  love ;  that  will 
bring  him  to  his  moorings!  And  now,"  he 
added,  "  we  will  go  to  the  music-room  and  I 
will  see  if  I  cannot  tempt  the  shy  bird  from 
his  roost."  And  so  we  did — Musgrave  is  an 
excellent    musician.    We    flung    the    windows 


312  At  Large 

open ;  he  embarked  upon  a  great  Bach  "  Toc- 
cata"; and  before  many  bars  were  over,  our 
idealist  crept  softly  into  the  room,  with  an 
air  of  apologetic  forgiyenese. 


xiy 

A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream 

I  SUPPOSE  that  every  one  knows  by  experi- 
ence how  certain  days  in  one's  life  have  a 
power  of  standing  out  in  the  memory,  even  in 
a  tract  of  pleasant  days,  all  lit  by  a  particular 
brightness  of  joy.  One  does  not  always  know 
at  the  time  that  the  day  is  going  to  be  so 
crowned;  but  the  weeks  pass  on,  and  the  one 
little  space  of  sunlight,  between  dawn  and 
eve,  has  orbed  itself 

"  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein." 

The  thing  that  in  my  own  case  most  tends  to 
produce  this  "  grace  of  congruity,"  as  the 
schoolmen  say,  is  the  presence  of  the  right  com- 
panion, and  it  is  no  less  important  that  he 
should  be  in  the  right  mood.  Sometimes  the 
right  companion  is  tiresome  when  he  should  be 
gracious,  or  boisterous  when  he  should  be 
313 


314  At  Large 

quiet;  but  when  he  is  in  the  right  mood,  he  is 
like  a  familiar  and  sympathetic  guide  on  a 
mountain  peak.  He  helps  one  at  the  right 
point;  his  desire  to  push  on  or  to  stop  coin- 
cides with  one's  own;  he  is  not  a  hired  assist- 
ant, but  a  brotherly  comrade.  On  the  day  that 
I  am  thinking  of  I  had  just  such  a  companion. 
He  was  cheerful,  accessible,  good-humoured. 
He  followed  when  I  wanted  to  lead,  he  led 
when  I  was  glad  to  follow.  He  was  not 
ashamed  of  being  unaffectedly  emotional,  and 
he  was  not  vaporous  or  quixotically  sentiment- 
al. He  did  not  want  to  argue,  or  to  hunt  an 
idea  to  death ;  and  we  had  the  supreme  delight 
of  long  silences,  during  which  our  thoughts  led 
us  to  the  same  point,  the  truest  test  that  there 
is  some  subtle  electrical  affinity  at  work,  mov- 
ing viewlessly  between  heart  and  brain. 

What  no  doubt  heightened  the  pleasure  for 
me  was  that  I  had  been  passing  through  a 
somewhat  dreary  period.  Things  had  been 
going  wrong,  had  tied  themselves  into  knots. 
Several  people  whose  fortunes  had  been  bound 
up  with  my  own  had  been  acting  perversely 
and  unreasonably — at  least  I  chose  to  think 
80.    My  own  work  had  come  to  a  standstill. 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream   315 

I  had  pushed  on  perhaps  too  fast,  and  I  had 
got  into  a  bare  sort  of  moorland  tract  of  life, 
and  could  not  discern  the  path  in  the  heather. 
There  did  not  seem  any  particular  task  for  me 
to  undertake;  the  people  whom  it  was  my 
business  to  help,  if  I  could,  seemed  unac- 
countably and  aggravatingly  prosperous  and 
independent.  Not  only  did  no  one  seem  to 
want  my  opinion,  but  I  did  not  feel  that  I  had 
any  opinions  worth  delivering.  Who  does  not 
know  the  frame  of  mind?  When  life  seems 
rather  an  objectless  business,  and  one  is 
tempted  just  to  let  things  slide;  when  energy 
is  depleted,  and  the  springs  of  hope  are  low; 
when  one  feels  like  the  family  in  one  of  Mrs, 
Walford's  books,  who  all  go  out  to  dinner  to- 
gether, and  of  whom  the  only  fact  that  is  re- 
lated is  that  "  nobody  wanted  them."  So 
fared  it  with  my  soul. 

But  that  morning,  somehow,  the  delicious 
sense  had  returned,  of  its  own  record,  of  a 
beautiful  quality  in  common  things.  I  had 
sought  it  in  vain  for  weeks;  it  had  behaved  as 
a  cat  behaves,  the  perverse,  soft,  pretty,  in- 
different creature.  It  had  stared  blankly  at 
my  beckoning  hand;  it  had  gambolled  away 


3i6  At  Large 

into  the  bushes  when  I  strove  to  capture  it, 
and  looked  out  at  me  when  I  desisted  with  in- 
nocent grey  eyes;  and  now  it  had  suddenly 
returned  uncalled,  to  caress  me  as  though  1 
had  been  a  long-lost  friend,  diligently  and 
anxiously  sought  for  in  vain.  That  morning 
the  very  scent  of  breakfast  being  prepared 
came  to  my  nostrils  like  the  smoke  of  a  sacri- 
fice in  my  honour;  the  shape  and  hue  of  the 
flowers  were  full  of  gracious  mystery;  the 
green  pasture  seemed  a  place  where  a  middle- 
aged  man  might  almost  venture  to  dance.  The 
sharp  chirping  of  the  birds  in  the  shrubbery 
seemed  a  concert  arranged  for  my  ear.  We 
were  soon  astir.  Like  Wordsworth  we  said 
that  this  one  day  we  would  give  to  idleness, 
though  the  profane  might  ask  to  what  that 
leisurely  poet  consecrated  the  rest  of  his  days. 
We  found  ourselves  deposited,  by  a  brisk 
train — the  very  stoker  seemed  to  be  engaged 
in  the  joyful  conspiracy — at  the  little  town  of 
St.  Ives.  I  should  like  to  expatiate  upon  the 
charms  of  St.  Ives,  its  clear,  broad,  rush- 
fringed  river,  its  quaint  brick  houses,  with 
their  little  wharf-gardens,  where  the  trailing 
nasturtium   mirrors  itself  in  the   slow  flood, 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream   317 

its  embayed  bridge,  witli  the  ancient  chapel 
buttressed  over  the  stream — but  I  must  hold 
my  hand;  I  must  not  linger  over  the  beauties 
of  the  City  of  Destruction,  which  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  was  a  very  picturesque  place, 
when  our  hearts  were  set  on  pilgrimage.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  we  walked  along  a  pretty 
riverside  causeway,  under  enlacing  limes,  past 
the  fine  church,  under  the  hanging  woods  of 
Houghton  Hill — ^and  here  we  found  a  mill,  a 
big,  timbered  place,  with  a  tiled  roof,  odd  gal- 
leries and  projecting  pent-houses,  all  pleas- 
antly dusted  with  flour,  where  a  great  wheel 
turned  dripping  in  a  fern-clad  cavern  of  its 
own,  with  the  scent  of  the  weedy  river-water 
blown  back  from  the  plunging  leat.  Oh,  the 
joyful  place  of  streams!  River  and  leat  and 
back-water  here  ran  clear  among  willow-clad 
islands,  all  fringed  deep  with  meadow-sweet 
and  comfrey  and  butterbur  and  melilot.  The 
sun  shone  overhead  among  big,  white,  racing 
clouds;  the  fish  poised  in  mysterious  pools 
among  trailing  water-weeds;  and  there  was 
soon  no  room  in  my  heart  for  anything  but  the 
joy  of  earth  and  the  beauty  of  it.  What  did 
the  weary   days   before   and   behind   matter? 


3i8  At  Large 

What  did  casuistry  and  determinism  and  fate 
and  the  purpose  of  life  concern  us  then,  my 
friend  and  me?  As  little  as  they  concerned 
the  gnats  that  danced  so  busily  in  the  golden 
light,  at  the  corner  where  the  alder  dipped 
her  red  rootlets  to  drink  the  brimming  stream. 
There  we  chartered  a  boat,  and  all  that  hot 
forenoon  rowed  lazily  on,  the  oars  grunting 
and  dripping,  the  rudder  clicking  softly 
through  avenues  of  reeds  and  water-plants, 
from  reach  to  reach,  from  pool  to  pool.  Here 
we  had  a  glimpse  of  the  wide-watered  valley 
rich  in  grass,  here  of  silent  woods,  up-piled  in 
the  distance,  over  which  quivered  the  hot  sum- 
mer air.  Here  a  herd  of  cattle  stood  knee-deep 
in  the  shallow  water,  lazily  twitching  their 
tails  and  snuffing  at  the  stream.  The  birds 
were  silent  now  in  the  glowing  noon ;  only  the 
reeds  shivered  and  bowed.  There,  beside  a 
lock  with  its  big,  battered  timbers,  the  water 
poured  green  and  translucent  through  a  half- 
shut  sluice.  Now  and  then  the  springs  of 
thought  brimmed  over  in  a  few  quiet  words, 
that  came  and  passed  like  a  breaking  bubble — 
but  for  the  most  part  we  were  silent,  content 
to  converse  with  nod  or  smile.    And  so  we 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream   319 

came  at  last  to  our  goal;  a  house  embowered 
in  leaves,  a  churchyard  beside  the  water,  and 
a  church  that  seemed  to  have  almost  crept  to 
the  brink  to  see  itself  mirrored  in  the  stream. 
The  place  mortals  call  Hemingford  Grey,  but 
it  had  a  new  name  for  me  that  day  which  I 
cannot  even  spell — for  the  perennial  difficulty 
that  survives  a  hundred  disenchantments,  is  to 
feel  that  a  romantic  hamlet  seen  thus  on  a 
day  of  pilgrimage,  with  its  clustering  roofs 
and  chimneys,  its  waterside  lawns,  is  a  real 
place  at  all.  I  suppose  that  people  there  live 
dull  and  simple  lives  enough,  buy  and  sell, 
gossip  and  back-bite,  wed  and  die;  but  for  the 
pilgrim  it  seems  an  enchanted  place,  where 
there  can  be  no  care  or  sorrow,  nothing  hard, 
or  unlovely,  or  unclean,  but  a  sort  of  fairy- 
land, where  men  seem  to  be  living  the  true  and 
beautiful  life  of  the  soul,  of  which  we  are  al- 
ways in  search,  but  which  seems  to  be  so 
strangely  hidden  away.  It  must  have  been  for 
me  and  my  friend  that  the  wise  and  kindly 
artist  who  lives  there  in  a  paradise  of  flowers, 
had  filled  his  trellises  with  climbing  roses,  and 
bidden  the  tall  larkspurs  raise  their  azure 
spires  in  the  air.    How  else  had  he  brought 


320  At  Large 

it  all  to  such  perfection  for  that  golden  hour? 
Perhaps  he  did  not  even  guess  that  he  had 
done  it  all  for  my  sake,  which  made  it  so  much 
more  gracious  a  gift.  And  then  we  learned 
too  from  a  little  red-bound  volume  which  I 
had  thought  before  was  a  guide-book,  but 
which  turned  out  to-day  to  be  a  volume  of  the 
Book  of  Life,  that  the  whole  place  was  alive 
with  the  calling  of  old  voices.  At  the  little 
church  there  across  the  meadows  the  portly, 
tender-hearted,  generous  Charles  James  Fox 
had  wedded  his  bride.  Here,  in  the  pool  be- 
low, Cowper's  dog  had  dragged  out  for  him  the 
yellow  water-lily  that  he  could  not  reach;  and 
in  the  church  itself  was  a  little  slab  where  two 
tiny  maidens  sleep,  the  sisters  of  the  famous 
Miss  Gunnings,  who  set  all  hearts  ablaze  by 
their  beauty,  who  married  dukes  and  earls,  and 
had  spent  their  sweet  youth  in  a  little  ruined 
manor-house  hard  by.  I  wonder  whether  after 
all  the  two  little  girls,  who  died  in  the  time  of 
roses,  had  not  the  better  part ;  and  whether  the 
great  Duchess,  who  showed  herself  so  haughty 
to  poor  Boswell,  when  he  led  his  great  danc- 
ing Bear  through  the  grim  North,  did  not 
think  sometimes  in  her  state  of  the  childish 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream  321 

sisters  with  whom  she  had  played,  before  they 
came  to  be  laid  in  the  cool  chancel  beside  the 
slow  stream. 

And  then  we  sat  down  for  a  little  on  the 
churchyard  wall,  and  watched  the  water- 
grasses  trail  and  the  fish  poise.  In  that  sweet 
corner  of  the  churchyard,  at  a  certain  season 
of  the  year,  grow  white  violets;  they  had 
dropped  their  blooms  long  ago;  but  they  were 
just  as  much  alive  as  when  they  were  speak- 
ing aloud  to  the  world  with  scent  and  colour ;  I 
can  never  think  of  flowers  and  trees  as  not  in 
a  sense  conscious;  I  believe  all  life  to  be  con- 
scious of  itself,  and  I  am  sure  that  the  flower- 
ing time  is  the  happy  time  for  flowers  as  much 
as  it  is  for  artists. 

Close  to  us  here  was  a  wall,  with  a  big,  solid 
Georgian  house  peeping  over,  blinking  with  its 
open  windows  and  sun-blinds  on  to  a  smooth, 
shaded  lawn,  full  of  green  glooms  and  leafy 
shelters.  Why  did  it  all  give  one  such  a  sense 
of  happiness  and  peace,  even  though  one  had 
no  share  in  it,  even  though  one  knew  that  one 
would  be  treated  as  a  rude  and  illegal  intruder 
if  one  stepped  across  and  used  it  as  one's  own  ? 

This  is  a  difficult  thing  to  analyse.    It  all 


322  At  Large 

lies  in  the  imagination;  one  thinks  of  a  long 
perspective  of  sunny  afternoons,  of  leisurely 
people  sitting  out  in  chairs  under  the  big 
sycamore,  reading  perhaps,  or  talking  quietly, 
or  closing  the  book  to  think,  the  memory  re- 
telling some  old  and  pretty  tale;  and  then 
perhaps  some  graceful  girl  comes  out  of  the 
house  with  a  world  of  hopes  and  innocent  de- 
sires in  her  wide-open  eyes;  or  a  tall  and 
limber  boy  saunters  out  bare-headed  and  flan- 
nelled, conscious  of  life  and  health,  and  steps 
down  to  the  punt  that  lies  swinging  at  its 
chain — one  hears  it  rattle  as  it  is  untied  and 
flung  into  the  prow;  and  then  the  dripping 
pole  is  plunged  and  raised,  and  the  punt  goes 
gliding  away,  through  zones  of  glimmering 
light  and  shadow,  to  the  bathing-pool.  All 
that  comes  into  one's  mind ;  one  takes  life,  and 
subtracts  from  it  all  care  and  anxiety,  all  the 
shadow  of  failure  and  suffering,  sees  it  as  it 
might  be,  and  finds  it  good.  That  is  the  first 
element  of  the  charm.  And  then  there  comes 
into  the  picture  a  further  and  more  reflective 
charm,  that  which  Tennyson  called  the  pas- 
sion of  the  past;  the  thought  that  all  this 
beautiful   life   is    slipping   away,   even    as   it 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream  323 

forms  itself,  that  one  cannot  stay  it  for  an 
instant,  but  that  the  shadow  creeps  across  the 
dial,  and  the  church-clock  tells  the  hours  of 
the  waning  day.  It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that 
such  a  sense  comes  of  age  and  experience ;  it  is 
rather  the  other  way,  for  never  is  the  regretful 
sense  of  the  fleeting  quality  of  things  realised 
with  greater  poignancy  than  when  one  is  young. 
When  one  grows  older  one  begins  to  expect 
a  good  deal  of  dissatisfaction  and  anxiety  to 
be  mingled  with  it  all ;  one  finds  the  old  Hora- 
tian  maxim  becoming  true: 

**Vitae    summa    brevis    nos    spem    vitat    inchoare 
longam," 

and  one  learns  to  be  grateful  for  the  sunny 
hour ;  but  when  one  is  young,  one  feels  so  capa- 
ble of  enjoying  it  all,  so  impatient  of  shadow 
and  rain,  that  one  cannot  bear  that  the  sweet 
wine  of  life  should  be  diluted. 

That  is,  I  believe,  the  analysis  of  the  charm 
of  such  a  scene:  the  possibility  of  joy,  and 
permanence,  tinged  with  the  pathos  that  it  has 
no  continuance,  but  rises  and  falls  and  fades 
like  a  ripple  in  the  stream. 

The  disillusionment  of  experience  is  a  very 


324  At  Large 

different  thing  from  the  pathos  of  youth;  for 
in  youth  the  very  sense  of  pathos  is  in  itself  an 
added  luxury  of  joy,  giving  it  a  delicate  beauty 
.which,  if  it  were  not  so  evanescent,  it  could 
not  possess. 

But  then  comes  the  real  trouble,  the  heavy 
anxiety,  the  illness,  the  loss;  and  those  things, 
which  looked  so  romantic  in  the  pages  of  poets 
and  the  scenes  of  story-writers,  turn  out  not 
to  be  romantic  at  all,  but  frankly  and  plainly 
disagreeable  and  intolerable  things.  The  boy 
who  swept  down  the  shining  reaches  with 
long,  deft  strokes  becomes  a  man — money  runs 
short,  his  children  give  him  anxiety,  his  wife 
becomes  ailing  and  fretful,  he  has  a  serious 
illness;  and  when  after  a  day  of  pain  he  limps 
out  in  the  afternoon  to  the  shadow  of  the  old 
plane-tree,  he  must  be  a  very  wise  and  tranquil 
and  patient  man,  if  he  can  still  feel  to  the 
full  the  sweet  influences  of  the  place,  and  be 
still  absorbed  and  comforted  by  them. 

And  here  lies  the  weakness  of  the  epicurean 
and  artistic  attitude,  that  it  assorts  so  ill  with 
the  harder  and  grimmer  facts  of  life.  Life 
has  a  habit  of  twitching  away  the  artistic  chair 
with  all  its  cushions  from  under  one,  with  a 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream  325 

rude  suddenness,  so  that  one  has,  if  one  is  wise, 
to  learn  a  mental  agility  and  to  avoid  the  temp- 
tation of  drowsing  in  the  land  where  it  is 
always  afternoon.  The  real  attitude  is  to  be 
able  to  play  a  robust  and  manful  part  in  the 
world,  and  yet  to  be  able  to  banish  the  thought 
of  the  bank-book  and  the  ledger  from  the  mind, 
and  to  submit  oneself  to  the  sweet  influences 
of  summer  and  sun. 

"  He  who  of  such  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft  is  not  unwise." 

So  sang  the  old  Puritan  poet;  and  there  is  a 
large  wisdom  in  the  word  oft  which  I  have 
abundantly  envied,  being  myself  an  anxious- 
minded  man! 

The  solution  is  halance — not  to  think  that 
the  repose  of  art  is  all,  and  yet  on  the  other 
hand  not  to  believe  that  life  is  always  jog- 
ging and  hustling  one.  The  way  in  which  one 
can  test  one's  progress  is  by  considering 
whether  activities  and  tiresome  engagements 
are  beginning  to  fret  one  unduly,  for  if  so  one 
is  becoming  a  hedonist;  and  on  the  other  hand 
by  being  careful  to  observe  whether  one  be- 
comes incapable  of  taking  a  holiday;  if  one 


326  At  Large 

becomes  bored  and  restless  and  hipped  in  a 
cessation  of  activities,  then  one  is  suffering 
from  the  disease  of  Martha  in  the  Gospel  story ; 
and  of  the  two  sisters  we  may  remember  that 
Martha  was  the  one  who  incurred  a  public 
rebuke. 

What  one  has  to  try  to  perceive  is  that  life 
is  designed  not  wholly  for  discomfort  or 
wholly  for  ease,  but  that  we  are  here  as  learn- 
ers, one  and  all.  Sometimes  the  lesson  comes 
whispering  through  the  leaves  of  the  plane- 
tree,  with  the  scent  of  violets  in  the  air; 
sometimes  it  comes  in  the  words  and  glances 
of  a  happy  circle  full  of  eager  talk,  sometimes 
through  the  pages  of  a  wise  book,  and  some- 
times in  grim  hours,  when  one  tosses  sleepless 
on  one's  bed  under  the  pressure  of  an  intoler- 
able thought — ^but  in  each  and  every  case  we 
do  best  when  we  receive  the  lesson  as  willingly 
and  large-heartedly  as  we  can. 

Perhaps,  in  some  of  my  writings,  those  who 
have  read  them  have  thought  that  I  have  un- 
duly emphasised  the  brighter,  sweeter,  more 
tranquil  side  of  life.  I  have  done  so  deliber- 
ately, because  I  believe  that  we  should  follow 
innocent  joy  as  far  as  we  can.    But  it  is  not 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream  327 

because  I  am  unaware  of  the  other  side.  I  do 
not  think  that  any  of  the  windings  of  the  dark 
wood  of  which  Dante  speaks  are  unknown  to 
me,  and  there  are  few  tracts  of  dreariness  that 
I  have  not  trodden  reluctantly.  I  have  had 
physical  health  and  much  seeming  prosperity; 
but  to  be  acutely  sensitive  to  the  pleasures  of 
happiness  and  peace  is  generally  to  be  mor- 
bidly sensitive  to  the  burden  of  cares.  Un- 
happiness  is  a  subjective  thing.  As  Mrs. 
Gummidge  so  truly  said,  when  she  was  re- 
minded that  other  people  had  their  troubles, 
"  I  feel  them  more."  And  if  I  have  upheld  the 
duty  of  seeking  peace,  it  has  been  like  a 
preacher  who  preaches  most  urgently  against 
his  own  bosom-sins.  But  I  am  sure  of  this, 
that  however  impatiently  one  mourns  one's 
fault  and  desires  to  be  different,  the  secret  of 
growth  lies  in  that  very  sorrow,  perhaps  in 
the  seeming  impotence  of  that  sorrow.  What 
one  must  desire  is  to  learn  the  truth,  however 
much  one  may  shudder  at  it;  and  the  longer 
that  one  persists  in  one's  illusions,  the  longer 
is  one's  learning-time.  Is  it  not  a  bitter  com- 
fort to  know  that  the  truth  is  there,  and  that 
what  we  believe  or   do  not  believe  about  it 


328  At  Large 

makes  no  difference  at  all?  Yes,  I  think  it  is 
a  comfort;  at  all  events  upon  that  foundation 
alone  is  it  possible  to  rest. 

How  far  one  drifts  in  thought  away  from 
the  sweet  scene  which  grows  sweeter  every 
hour.  The  heat  of  the  day  is  over  now;  the 
breeze  curls  on  the  stream,  the  shadow  of  the 
tower  falls  far  across  the  water.  My  com- 
panion rises  and  smiles,  thinking  me  lost  in 
indolent  content;  he  hardly  guesses  how  far  I 
have  been  voyaging 

"  On  strange  seas  of  thought  alone." 

Does  he  guess  that  as  I  look  back  over  my  life, 
pain  has  so  far  preponderated  over  happiness 
that  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  live  it  again,  and 
that  I  would  not  in  truth,  if  I  could  choose, 
have  lived  it  at  all?  And  yet,  even  so,  I  re- 
cognise that  I  am  glad  not  to  have  the  choice, 
for  it  would  be  made  in  an  indolent  and  timid 
spirit,  and  I  do  indeed  believe  that  the  end  is 
not  yet,  and  that  the  hour  will  assuredly  come 
when  I  shall  rejoice  to  have  lived,  and  see  the 
meaning  even  of  my  fears. 

And  then  we  retrace  our  way,  and  like  the 
Lady  of  Shalott  step  down  into  the  boat,  to 


A  Midsummer  Day's  Dream  329 

glide  along  the  darkling  water-way  in  the 
westering  light.  Why  cannot  I  speak  to  my 
friend  of  such  dark  things  as  these?  It  would 
be  better  perhaps  if  I  could,  and  yet  no  hand 
can  help  us  to  bear  our  own  burden. 

But  the  dusk  comes  slowly  on,  merging  reed 
and  pasture  and  gliding  stream  in  one  indis- 
tinguishable shade;  the  trees  stand  out  black 
against  the  sunset,  thickening  to  an  emerald 
green.  A  star'  comes  out  over  the  dark  hill, 
the  lights  begin  to  peep  out  in  the  windows  of 
the  clustering  town  as  we  draw  nearer.  As  we 
glide  beneath  the  dark  houses,  with  their 
gables  and  chimneys  dark  against  the  glowing 
sky,  how  everything  that  is  dull  and  trivial 
and  homely  is  blotted  out  by  the  twilight,  leav- 
ing nothing  but  a  sense  of  romantic  beauty,  of 
mysterious  peace!  The  little  town  becomes 
an  enchanted  city  full  of  heroic  folk ;  the  figure 
that  leans  silently  over  the  bridge  to  see  us 
pass,  to  what  high-hearted  business  is  he 
vowed,  burgher  or  angel?  A  spell  is  woven  of 
shadow  and  falling  light,  and  of  chimes  float- 
ing over  meadow  and  stream.  Yet  this  sense 
of  something  remotely  and  unutterably  beau- 
tiful,  this   transfiguration  of  life,  is  as  real 


330  At  Large 

and  vital  an  experience  as  the  daily,  dreary 
toil,  and  to  be  welcomed  as  such.  Nay,  more! 
it  is  better,  because  it  gives  one  a  deepened 
sense  of  value,  of  significance,  of  eternal  great- 
ness, to  which  we  must  cling  as  firmly  as  we 
may,  because  it  is  there  that  the  final  secret 
lies;  not  in  the  poor  struggles,  the  anxious  de- 
lays which  are  but  the  incidents  of  the  voyage, 
and  not  the  serene  life  of  haven  and  home. 


xy 

Symbols 

THE  present  time  is  an  era  when  intellect- 
ual persons  are  ashamed  of  being  credu- 
lous. It  is  the  perfectly  natural  and  desirable 
result  of  the  working  of  the  scientific  spirit. 
Everything  is  relentlessly  investigated,  the 
enormous  structure  of  natural  law  is  being 
discovered  to  underlie  all  the  most  surprising, 
delicate,  and  apparently  fortuitous  processes, 
and  no  one  can  venture  to  forecast  where  the 
systematisation  will  end.  The  result  is  a  great 
inrush  of  bracing  and  invigorating  candour. 
It  is  not  that  our  liberty  or  reflection  and  ac- 
tion is  increased.  It  is  rather  increasingly 
limited.  But  at  least  we  are  growing  to  dis- 
cern where  our  boundaries  are,  and  it  is  deeply 
refreshing  to  find  that  the  boundaries  erected 
by  humanity  are  much  closer  and  more  cramp- 
ing than  the  boundaries  determined  by  God. 
We  are  no  longer  bound  by  human  authority, 

331 


332  At  Large 

by  subjective  theories,  by  petty  tradition.  We 
are  no  longer  required  to  tremble  before 
thaumaturgy  and  conjuring  and  occultism.  It 
is  true  that  science  has  hitherto  confined  itself 
mainly  to  the  investigation  of  concrete  pheno- 
mena; but  the  same  process  is  sure  to  be 
applied  to  metaphysics,  to  sociology,  to 
psychology;  and  the  day  will  assuredly  come 
when  the  human  race  will  analyse  the  laws 
which  govern  progress,  which  regulate  the  ex- 
act development  of  religion  and  morality. 

The  demolition  of  credulity  is,  as  I  have 
said,  a  wholly  desirable  and  beneficial  thing. 
Most  intelligent  people  have  found  some  hap- 
piness in  learning  that  the  dealings  of  God 
— that  is,  the  creative  and  originative  power 
behind  the  universe — are  at  all  events  not 
whimsical,  however  unintelligible  they  may  be. 
No  one  at  all  events  is  now  required  to  recon- 
cile with  his  religious  faith  a  detailed  belief 
in  the  Mosaic  cosmogony,  or  to  accept  the  fact 
that  a  Hebrew  prophet  was  enabled  to  summon 
bears  from  a  wood  to  tear  to  pieces  some  un- 
happy boys  who  found  food  for  mirth  in  his 
personal  appearance.  That  is  a  pure  gain. 
But  side  by  side  with  this  entirely  wholesome 


Symbols  333 

process,  there  are  a  good  many  people  who 
have  thrown  overboard,  together  with  their 
credulity,  a  quality  of  a  far  higher  and  nobler 
kind,  which  may  be  called  faith.  Men  who 
have  seen  many  mysteries  explained,  and  many 
dark  riddles  solved  in  nature,  have  fallen  into 
what  is  called  materialism,  from  the  mistaken 
idea  that  the  explanation  of  material  pheno- 
mena will  hold  good  for  the  discernment  of 
abstract  phenomena.  Yet  any  one  who  ap- 
proaches the  results  of  scientific  investigation 
in  a  philosophical  and  a  poetical  spirit,  sees 
clearly  enough  that  nothing  has  been  attempted 
but  analysis,  and  that  the  mystery  which  sur- 
rounds us  is  only  thrust  a  little  further  off, 
while  the  darkness  is  as  impenetrable  and 
profound  as  ever.  All  that  we  have  learnt  is 
how  natural  law  works;  we  have  not  come 
near  to  learning  why  it  works  as  it  does.  All 
we  have  really  acquired  is  a  knowledge  that 
the  audacious  and  unsatisfactory  theories, 
such  for  instance  as  the  old-fashioned  scheme 
of  redemption,  by  which  men  have  attempted 
with  a  pathetic  hopefulness  to  justify  the  ways 
of  God  to  man,  are,  and  are  bound  to  be,  de- 
spairingly   incomplete.    The    danger    of    the 


334  At  Large 

scientific  spirit  is  not  that  it  is  too  agnostic, 
but  that  it  is  not  agnostic  enough :  it  professes 
to  account  for  everything  when  it  only  has  a 
very  few  of  the  data  in  its  grasp.  The  ma- 
terialistic philosophy  tends  to  be  a  tyranny 
which  menaces  liberty  of  thought.  Every 
one  has  a  right  to  deduce  what  theory  he  can 
from  his  own  experience.  The  one  thing  that 
we  have  no  sort  of  right  to  do  is  to  enforce 
that  theory  upon  people  whose  experience  does 
not  confirm  it.  We  may  invite  them  to  act 
upon  our  assumptions,  but  we  must  not  blame 
them  if  they  end  by  considering  them  to  be 
baseless.  I  was  talking  the  other  day  to  an 
ardent  Roman  Catholic,  who  described  by  a 
parable  the  light  in  which  he  viewed  the  au- 
thority of  the  Church.  He  said  that  it  was 
as  if  he  were  half-way  up  a  hill,  prevented 
from  looking  over  into  a  hidden  valley  by  the 
slope  of  the  ground.  On  the  hill-top,  he  said, 
might  be  supposed  to  stand  people  in  whose 
good  faith  and  accuracy  of  vision  he  had  com- 
plete confidence.  If  they  described  to  him 
what  they  saw  in  the  valley  beyond,  he  would 
not  dream  of  mistrusting  them.  But  the 
analogy  breaks  down  at  every  point,  because 


Symbols  335 

the  essence  of  it  is  that  every  one  who  reached 
the  hill-top  would  inevitably  see  the  same 
scene.  Yet  in  the  case  of  religion,  the  hill- 
top is  crowded  by  people,  whose  good  faith  is 
equally  incontestable,  but  whose  descriptions 
of  what  lies  beyond  are  at  hopeless  variance. 
Moreover  all  alike  confess  that  the  impressions 
they  derive  are  outside  the  possibility  of  scien- 
tific or  intellectual  tests,  and  that  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  inference  depending  upon  a  subjec- 
tive consent  in  the  mind  of  the  discerner  to 
accept  what  is  incapable  of  proof.  The 
strength  of  the  scientific  position  is  that  the 
scientific  observer  is  in  the  presence  of  pheno- 
mena confirmed  by  innumerable  investigations, 
and  that,  up  to  a  certain  point,  the  operation 
of  a  law  has  been  ascertained,  which  no  rea- 
sonable man  has  any  excuse  for  doubting. 
Whenever  that  law  conflicts  with  religious 
assumptions,  which  in  any  case  cannot  be 
proved  to  be  more  than  subjective  assumptions, 
the  unverifiable  theory  must  go  down  before 
the  verifiable.  Religion  may  assume,  for  in- 
stance, that  life  is  an  educative  process;  but 
that  theory  cannot  be  considered  proved  in  the 
presence  of  the  fact  that  many  human  beings 


23^  At  Large 

close  their  eyes  upon  the  world  before  they 
are  capable  of  exercising  any  moral  or  intel- 
lectual choice  whatever. 

It  may  prove,  upon  investigation,  that  all 
religious  theories  and  all  creeds  are  nothing 
more  than  the  desperate  and  pathetic  attempts 
of  humanity,  conscious  of  an  instinctive  horror 
of  suffering,  and  of  an  inalienable  sense  of 
their  right  to  happiness,  to  provide  a  solution 
for  the  appalling  fact  that  many  human  be- 
ings seem  created  only  to  suffer  and  to  be  un- 
happy. The  mystery  is  a  very  dark  one;  and 
philosophy  is  still  not  within  reach  of  ex- 
plaining how  it  is  that  a  sense  of  justice  should 
be  implanted  in  man  by  the  Power  that  ap- 
pears so  often  to  violate  that  conception  of 
justice. 

The  fact  is  that  the  progress  of  science  has 
created  an  immense  demand  for  the  quality  of 
faith  and  hopefulness,  by  revealing  so  much 
that  is  pessimistic  in  the  operation  of  natural 
law.  If  we  are  to  live  with  any  measure  of 
contentment  or  tranquillity,  we  must  acquire 
a  confidence  that  God  has  not,  as  science 
tends  to  indicate,  made  all  men  for  nought. 
We  must,  if  we  can,  acquire  some  sort  of  hope 


Symbols  337 

that  it  is  not  in  mere  wantonness  and  indif- 
ference that  He  confronts  us  with  the  neces- 
sity for  bearing  the  things  that  He  has  made 
us  most  to  dread.  It  may  be  easy  enough  for 
robustj  vigorous,  contented  persons  to  believe 
that  God  means  us  well ;  but  the  only  solution 
that  is  worth  anything  is  a  solution  that  shall 
give  us  courage,  patience,  and  even  joy,  at 
times  when  everything  about  us  seems  to  speak 
of  cruelty  and  error  and  injustice.  One  of 
the  things  that  has  ministered  comfort  in 
large  measure  to  souls  so  afflicted  is  the  power 
of  tracing  a  certain  beauty  and  graciousness  in 
the  phenomena  that  surround  us.  Who  is 
there  who  in  moments  of  bewildered  sorrow 
has  not  read  a  hint  of  some  vast  lovingness, 
moving  dimly  in  the  background  of  things,  in 
the  touch  of  familiar  hands  or  in  the  glances 
of  dear  eyes?  Surely,  they  have  said  to  them- 
selves, if  love  is  the  deepest,  strongest,  and 
most  lasting  force  in  the  world,  the  same 
quality  must  be  hidden  deepest  in  the  Heart 
of  God.  This  is  the  unique  strength  of  the 
Christian  revelation,  the  thought  of  the  Father- 
hood of  God,  and  His  tender  care  for  all  that 
he  has  made.    Again,  who  is  there  who  in  de- 


33^  At  Large 

pression  and  anxiety  has  not  had  his  load 
somewhat  lightened  by  the  sight  of  the  fresh 
green  of  spring  foliage  against  a  blue  sky,  by 
the  colour  and  scent  of  flowers,  by  the  sweet 
melody  of  musical  chords?  The  aching  spirit 
has  said,  "  They  are  there — beauty,  and  peace, 
and  joy — if  I  could  but  find  the  way  to  them." 
Who  has  not  had  his  fear  of  death  alleviated 
by  the  happy  end  of  some  beloved  life,  when 
the  dear  one  has  made  as  it  were,  solemn  haste 
to  be  gone,  falling  gently  into  slumber?  Who 
is  there,  who,  speeding  homewards  in  the  sun- 
set, has  seen  the  dusky  orange  veil  of  flying 
light  drawn  softly  westward  over  misty  fields, 
where  the  old  house  stands  up  darkling  among 
the  glimmering  pastures,  and  has  not  felt  the 
presence  of  some  sweet  secret  waiting  for  him 
beyond  the  gates  of  life,  and  death?  All  these 
things  are  symbols,  because  the  emotions  they 
arouse  are  veritably  there,  as  indisputable  a 
phenomenon  as  any  fact  which  science  has 
analysed.  The  miserable  mistake  that  many 
intellectual  people  make  is  to  disregard  what 
they  would  call  vague  emotions  in  the  pres- 
ence of  scientific  truth.  Yet  such  emotions 
have  a  far  more  intimate  concern  for  us  than 


Symbols  339 

the  dim  sociology  of  bees,  or  the  concentric 
forces  of  the  stars.  Our  emotions  are  far 
more  true  and  vivid  experiences  for  us  than 
indisputable  laws  of  nature  which  never 
cut  the  line  of  our  life  at  all.  We  may  wish, 
perhaps,  that  the  lawa  of  such  emotions  were 
analysed  and  systematised  too,  for  it  is  a  very 
timid  and  faltering  spirit  that  thinks  that 
deflniteness  is  the  same  as  profanation.  We 
may  depend  upon  it  that  the  deeper  we  can 
probe  into  such  secrets,  the  richer  will  our 
conceptions  of  life  and  God  become. 

The  mistake  that  is  so  often  made  by  relig- 
ious organisations,  which  depend  so  largely 
upon  symbolism,  is  the  terrible  limiting  of 
this  symbolism  to  traditional  ceremonies  and 
venerable  ritual.  It  has  been  said  that  re- 
ligion is  the  only  form  of  poetry  accessible  to 
the  poor;  and  it  is  true  in  the  sense  that  any- 
thing which  hallows  and  quickens  the  most 
normal  and  simple  experiences  of  lives  di- 
vorced from  intellectual  and  artistic  influences 
is  a  very  real  and  true  kind  of  symbolism.  It 
may  be  well  to  give  people  such  symbolism  as 
they  can  understand,  and  the  best  symbols  of 
all  are  those  that  deal  with  the  commonest 


340  At  Large 

emotions.  But  it  is  a  lean  wisdom  that  em- 
phasises a  limited  range  of  emotions  at  the 
expense  of  a  larger  range;  and  the  spirit 
which  limits  the  sacred  influences  of  religion 
to  particular  buildings  and  particular  rites  is 
very  far  removed  from  the  spirit  of  Him  who 
said  that  neither  at  Gerizim  nor  in  Jerusalem 
was  the  Father  to  be  worshipped,  but  in  spirit 
and  in  truth.  At  the  same  time  the  natural 
impatience  of  one  who  discerns  a  symbolism 
all  about  him,  in  tree  and  flower,  in  sunshine 
and  rain,  and  who  hates  to  see  the  range  re- 
stricted, is  a  feeling  that  a  wise  and  tolerant 
man  ought  to  resist.  It  is  ill  to  break  the 
pitcher  because  the  well  is  at  hand !  One  does 
not  make  a  narrow  soul  broader  by  breaking 
down  its  boundaries,  but  by  revealing  the 
beauty  of  the  further  horizon.  Even  the  false 
feeling  of  compassion  must  be  resisted.  A 
child  is  more  encouraged  by  listening  patiently 
to  its  tale  of  tiny  exploits,  than  by  casting 
ridicule  upon  them. 

But  on  the  other  hand  it  is  a  wholly  false 
timidity  for  one  who  has  been  brought  up  to 
love  and  reverence  the  narrower  range  of  sym- 
bols, to  choke  and  stifle  the  desires  that  stir 


Symbols  341 

in  his  heart  for  the  wider  range,  out  of  defer- 
ence to  authority  and  custom.  One  must  not 
discard  a  cramping  garment  until  one  has  a 
freer  one  to  take  its  place;  but  to  continue 
in  the  confining  robe  with  the  larger  lying 
ready  to  one's  hand,  from  a  sense  of  false 
pathos  and  unreasonable  loyalty,  is  a  piece  of 
foolishness. 

There  are,  I  believe,  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  now  alive  who  have  outgrown  their 
traditional  faith,  through  no  fault  of  their 
own;  but  who  out  of  terror  at  the  vague  men- 
aces of  interested  and  Pharisaical  persons  do 
not  dare  to  break  away.  One  must  of  course 
weigh  carefully  whether  one  values  comfort 
or  liberty  most.  But  what  I  would  say  is  that 
it  is  of  the  essence  of  a  faith  to  be  elastic,  to 
be  capable  of  development,  to  be  able  to  em- 
brace the  forward  movement  of  thought. 
Now  so  far  am  I  from  wishing  to  suggest  that 
we  have  outgrown  Christianity,  that  I  would 
assert  that  we  have  not  yet  mastered  its 
simplest  principles.  I  believe  with  all  my 
soul  that  it  is  still  able  to  embrace  the  most 
daring  scientific  speculations,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  it  is  hardly  concerned  with  them 


342  At  Large 

at  all.  Where  religious  faith  conflicts  with 
science  is  in  the  tenacity  with  which  it  holds 
to  the  literal  truth  of  the  miraculous  occur- 
rences related  in  the  Scriptures.  Some  of 
these  present  no  difficulty,  some  appear  to 
be  scientifically  incredible.  Yet  these  latter 
seem  to  me  to  be  but  the  perfectly  natural  con- 
temporary setting  of  the  faith,  and  not  to  be 
of  the  essence  of  Christianity  at  all.  Miracles, 
whether  they  are  true  or  not,  are  at  all  events 
unverifiable,  and  no  creed  that  claims  to  de- 
pend upon  the  acceptance  of  unverifiable  events 
can  have  any  vitality.  But  the  personality, 
the  force,  the  perception  of  Christ  himself 
emerges  with  absolute  distinctness  from  the 
surrounding  details.  We  may  not  be  in  a 
position  to  check  exactly  what  He  said  and 
what  He  did  not  say,  but  just  as  no  reasonable 
man  can  hold  that  He  was  merely  an  imagi- 
native conception  invented  by  people  who  ob- 
viously did  not  understand  Him,  so  the  general 
drift  of  His  teaching  is  absolutely  clear  and 
convincing. 

What  I  would  have  those  do  who  can  pro- 
fess themselves  sincerely  convinced  Christians, 
in   spite  of  the  uncertainty   of  many  of  the 


Symbols  343 

recorded  details,  is  to  adopt  a  simple  com- 
promise;  to  claim  their  part  in  the  inheritance 
of  Christ,  and  the  symbols  of  His  mysteries, 
but  not  to  feel  themselves  bound  by  any  ec- 
clesiastical tradition.  No  one  can  forbid,  by 
peevish  regulations,  direct  access  to  the  spirit 
of  Christ  and  to  the  love  of  God.  Christ's 
teaching  was  a  purely  individualistic  teach- 
ing, based  upon  conduct  and  emotion,  and 
half  the  difficulties  of  the  position  lie  in  His 
sanction  and  guidance  having  been  claimed 
for  what  is  only  a  human  attempt  to  organise 
a  society  with  a  due  deference  for  the  secular 
spirit,  its  aims  and  ambitions.  The  sincere 
Christian  should,  I  believe,  gratefully  receive 
the  simple  and  sweet  symbols  of  unity  and 
forgiveness;  but  he  should  make  his  own  a  far 
higher  and  wider  range  of  symbols,  the  sym- 
bols of  natural  beauty  and  art  and  literature 
— all  the  passionate  dreams  of  peace  and  emo- 
tion that  have  thrilled  the  yearning  hearts  of 
men.  Wherever  those  emotions  have  led  men 
along  selfish,  cruel,  sensual  paths,  they  must 
be  ditrusted,  just  as  we  must  distrust  the  re- 
ligious emotions  which  have  sanctioned  such 
divergences   from   the   spirit   of  Christ.     We 


344  At  Large 

must  believe  that  the  essence  of  religion  is  to 
make  us  alive  to  the  love  of  God,  in  whatever 
writing  of  light  and  air,  of  form  and  fra- 
grance it  is  revealed;  and  we  must  further  be- 
lieve that  religion  is  meant  to  guide  and 
quicken  the  tender,  compassionate,  brotherly 
emotions,  by  which  we  lean  to  each  other  in 
this  world  where  so  much  is  dark.  But  to 
denounce  the  narrower  forms  of  religion,  or 
to  abstain  from  them,  is  utterly  alien  to  the 
spirit  of  Christ.  He  obeyed  and  reverenced 
the  law,  though  He  knew  that  the  expanding 
spirit  of  His  own  teaching  would  break  it  in 
pieces.  Of  course,  since  liberty  is  the  spirit 
of  the  Gospel,  a  liberty  conditioned  by  the 
sense  of  equality,  there  may  be  occasion^ 
when  a  man  is  bound  to  resist  what  appears 
to  him  to  be  a  moral  or  an  intellectual  tyranny. 
But  short  of  that,  the  only  thing  of  which  one 
must  beware  is  a  conscious  insincerity;  and 
the  limits  of  that  a  man  must  determine  for 
himself.  There  are  occasions  when  considera- 
tion for  the  feelings  of  others  seems  to  con- 
flict with  one's  own  sense  of  sincerity;  but  I 
think  that  one  is  seldom  wrong  in  preferring 
consideration  for  others  to  the  personal  in- 
dulgence   of    one's    own    apparent    sincerity. 


Symbols  345 

Peace  and  gentleness  always  prevail  in  the 
end  over  vehemence  and  violence,  and  a  peace- 
ful revolution  brings  about  happier  results  for 
a  country,  as  we  have  good  reason  to  know, 
than  a  revolution  of  force.  Even  now  the 
narrower  religious  systems  prevail  more  in 
virtue  of  the  gentleness  and  goodwill  and  per- 
suasion of  their  ministers  than  through  the 
spiritual  terrors  that  they  wield — the  thun- 
ders are  divorced  from  the  lightning. 

Thus  may  the  victories  of  faith  be  won,  not 
by  noise  and  strife,  but  by  the  silent  motion  of 
a  resistless  tide.  Even  now  it  creeps  softly 
over  the  sand  and  brims  the  stagnant  pools 
with  the  freshening  and  invigorating  brine. 

But  in  the  worship  of  the  symbol  there  is 
one  deep  danger;  and  that  is  that  if  one  rests 
upon  it,  if  one  makes  one's  home  in  the  palace 
of  beauty  or  philosophy  or  religion,  one  has 
failed  in  the  quest.  It  is  the  pursuit  not  of 
the  unattained  but  of  the  unattainable  to 
which  we  are  vowed.  Nothing  but  the  unat- 
tainable can  draw  us  onward.  It  is  rest  that 
is  forbidden.  We  are  pilgrims  yet;  and  if,  in- 
toxicated and  bemused  by  beauty  or  emotion 
or  religion,  we  make  our  dwelling  there,  it  is 
as  though  we  slept  in  the  enchanted  ground. 


346  At  Large 

Enough  is  given  us,  and  no  more,  to  keep  us 
moving  forwards.  To  be  satisfied  is  to  slum- 
ber. The  melancholy  that  follows  hard  in 
the  footsteps  of  art,  the  sadness  haunting  the 
bravest  music,  the  aching,  troubled  longing 
that  creeps  into  the  mind  at  the  sight  of  the 
fairest  scene,  is  but  the  warning  presence  of 
the  guide  that  travels  with  us  and  fears  that 
we  may  linger.  Who  has  not  seen  across  a 
rising  ground  the  gables  of  the  old  house,  the 
church  tower,  dark  among  the  bare  boughs  of 
the  rookery  in  a  smiling  sunset,  and  half  lost 
himself  at  the  thought  of  the  impossibly  beau- 
tiful life  that  might  be  lived  there?  To-day, 
just  when  the  western  sun  began  to  tinge  the 
floating  clouds  with  purple  and  gold,  I  saw  by 
the  roadside  an  old  labourer,  fork  on  back, 
plodding  heavily  across  a  plough-land  all 
stippled  with  lines  of  growing  wheat.  Hard 
by  a  windmill  whirled  its  clattering  arms. 
How  I  longed  for  something  that  would  ren- 
der permanent  the  scene,  sight,  and  sound 
alike.  It  told  me  somehow  that  the  end  was 
not  yet.  What  did  it  stand  for?  I  hardly 
know;  for  life,  slow  and  haggard  with  toil, 
hard-won   sustenance,   all   overhung  with  the 


Symbols  347 

crimson  glories  of  waning  light,  the  wet  road 
itself  catching  the  golden  hues  of  heaven.  A 
little  later,  passing  by  the  great  pauper  asy- 
lum that  stands  up  so  naked  among  the  bare 
fields,  I  looked  over  a  hedge,  and  there,  behind 
the  engine-house  with  its  heaps  of  scoriae  and 
rubbish,  lay  a  little  trim  ugly  burial-ground, 
with  a  dismal  mortuary,  upon  which  some  pa- 
thetic and  tawdry  taste  had  been  spent. 
There  in  rows  lay  the  mouldering  bones  of  the 
failures  of  life  and  old  sin;  not  even  a  head- 
stone over  each  with  a  word  of  hope,  nothing 
but  a  number  on  a  tin  tablet.  Nothing  more 
incredibly  sordid  could  be  devised.  One  thought 
of  the  sad  rite,  the  melancholy  priest,  the  hand- 
ful of  relatives  glad  at  heart  that  the  poor 
broken  life  was  over  and  the  wretched  asso- 
ciations at  an  end.  Yet  even  that  sight  too 
warned  one  not  to  linger,  and  that  the  end  was 
not  yet.  Presently,  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
I  was  making  my  way  through  the  streets  of 
the  city.  The  dusk  had  obliterated  all  that 
was  mean  and  dreary.  Nothing  but  the  ir- 
regular housefronts  stood  up  against  the  still 
sky,  the  lighted  windows  giving  the  sense  of. 
home  and  ease.    A  quiet  bell  rang  for  vespers 


348  At  Large 

in  a  church  tower,  and  as  I  passed  I  heard  an 
organ  roll  within.  It  all  seemed  a  sweetly 
framed  message  to  the  soul,  a  symbol  of  joy 
and  peace. 

But  then  I  reflected  that  the  danger  was  of 
selecting,  out  of  the  symbols  that  crowded 
around  one  on  every  side,  merely  those  that 
ministered  to  one's  own  satisfaction  and  con- 
tentment. The  sad  horror  of  that  other 
place,  the  little  bare  place  of  desolate  graves 
— that  must  be  a  symbol  as  well,  that  must 
stand  as  a  witness  of  some  part  of  the  awful 
mind  of  God,  of  the  strange  flaw  or  rent  that 
seems  to  run  through  His  world.  It  may  be 
more  comfortable,  more  luxurious  to  detach 
the  symbol  that  testifies  to  the  satisfaction  of 
our  needs;  but  not  thus  do  we  draw  near  to 
truth  and  God.  And  then  I  thought  that  per- 
haps it  was  best,  when  we  are  secure  and  care- 
less and  joyful,  to  look  at  times  steadily  into 
the  dark  abyss  of  the  world,  not  in  the  spirit 
of  morbidity,  not  with  the  sense  of  the  ma- 
cahre — the  skeleton  behind  the  rich  robe,  death 
at  the  monarch's  shoulder;  but  to  remind  our- 
selves, faithfully  and  wisely,  that  for  us  too 
the  shadow  waits;  and  then  that  in  our  mo- 


Symbols  349 

ments  of  dreariness  and  heaviness  we  should 
do  well  to  seek  for  symbols  of  our  peace,  not 
thrusting  them  peevishly  aside  as  only  serving 
to  remind  us  of  what  we  have  lost  and  for- 
feited, but  dwelling  on  them  patiently  and 
hopefully,  with  a  tender  onlooking  to  the 
gracious  horizon  with  all  its  golden  lights  and 
purple  shadows.  And  thus  not  in  a  mercan- 
tile mood  traflScking  for  our  delight  in  the 
m3'steries  of  life — for  not  by  prudence  can  we 
draw  near  to  God — ^but  in  a  childlike  mood, 
valuing  the  kindly  word,  the  smile  that  lights 
up  the  narrow  room  and  enriches  the  austere 
fare,  and  paying  no  heed  at  all  to  the  jeal- 
ousies and  the  covetous  ingathering  that  turns 
the  temple  of  the  Father  into  a  house  of 
merchandise. 

For  here,  deepest  of  all,  lies  the  worth  of  the 
symbol:  that  this  life  of  ours  is  not  a  little 
fretful  space  of  days,  rounded  with  a  sleep, 
but  an  integral  part  of  an  inconceivably  vast 
design,  flooding  through  and  behind  the  star- 
strewn  heavens;  that  there  is  no  sequence  of 
events  as  we  conceive,  that  acts  are  not  done 
or  words  said,  once  and  for  all,  and  then  laid 
away  in  the  darkness;  but  that  it  is  all  an 


350  At  Large 

ever-living  thing,  in  which  the  things  that  we 
call  old  are  as  much  present  in  the  mind  of 
God  as  the  things  that  shall  be  millions  of 
centuries  hence.  There  is  no  uncertainty 
with  Him,  no  doubt  as  to  what  shall  be  here- 
after; and  if  we  once  come  near  to  that  truth, 
we  can  draw  from  it,  in  our  darkest  hours,  a 
refreshment  that  cannot  fail;  for  the  saddest 
thought  in  the  mind  of  man  is  the  thought 
that  these  things  could  have  been,  could  be 
other  than  they  are;  and  if  we  once  can  bring 
home  to  ourselves  the  knowledge  that  God  is 
unchanged  and  unchangeable,  our  faithless 
doubts,  our  melancholy  regrets  melt  in  the 
light  of  truth,  as  the  hoar-frost  fades  upon  the 
grass  in  the  rising  sun,  when  every  globed 
dewdrop  flashes  like  a  jewel  in  the  radiance 
of  the  fiery  dawn. 


XVI 

Optimism 

WE  Anglo-Saxons  are  mostly  optimists  at 
heart;  we  love  to  have  things  comfort- 
able, and  to  pretend  that  they  are  comfortable 
when  they  obviously  are  not.  The  brisk  Anglo- 
Saxon,  if  he  cannot  reach  the  grapes,  does 
not  say  that  the  grapes  are  sour,  but  protests 
that  he  does  not  really  care  about  grapes.  A 
story  is  told  of  a  great  English  proconsul  who 
desired  to  get  a  loan  from  the  Treasury  of  the 
Government  over  which  he  practically,  though 
not  nominally,  presided.  He  went  to  the 
Financial    Secretary    and   said :    "  Look   here, 

T ,  you  must  get  me  a  loan  for  a  business 

I  have  very  much  at  heart."  The  secretary 
whistled,  and  then  said,  "  Well,  I  will  try ; 
but  it  is  not  the  least  use."  "  Oh,  you  will 
manage  it  somehow,"  said  the  proconsul,  "  and 
I  may  tell  you  confidentially  it  is  absolutely 
essential."     The  following  morning  the  secre- 

35X 


352  At  Large 

tary  came  to  report :  "  I  told  you  it  was  no 
use,  sir,  and  it  wasn't;  the  Board  would  not 
hear  of  it."  "  Damnation !  "  said  the  procon- 
sul, and  went  on  writing.  A  week  after  he 
met  the  secretary,  who  felt  a  little  shy.    "  By 

the  way,  T ,"  said  the  great  man,  "  I  have 

been  thinking  over  that  matter  of  the  loan, 
and  it  was  a  mercy  you  were  not  successful ;  it 
would  have  been  a  hopeless  precedent,  and  we 
are  much  better  without  it." 

That  is  the  true  Anglo-Saxon  spirit  of  optim- 
ism. The  most  truly  British  person  I  know 
is  a  man  who  will  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
secure  a  post  or  to  compass  an  end;  but  when 
he  fails,  as  he  does  not  often  fail,  he  says  gen- 
ially that  he  is  more  thankful  than  he  can  say ; 
it  would  have  been  ruin  to  him  if  he  had  been 
successful.  The  same  quality  runs  through 
our  philosophy  and  our  religion.  Who  but  an 
Anglo-Saxon  would  have  invented  the  robust 
theory,  to  account  for  the  fact  that  prayers 
are  often  not  granted,  that  prayers  are  always 
directly  answered  whether  you  attain  your  de- 
sire or  not.  The  Greeks  prayed  that  the  gods 
would  grant  them  what  was  good  even  if  they 
did  not  desire  it,  and  withhold  what  was  evil 


Optimism  353 

if  they  did  desire  it.  The  shrewd  Roman  said, 
*'  The  gods  will  give  us  what  is  most  appro- 
priate; man  is  dearer  to  them  than  to  him- 
self." But  the  faithful  Anglo-Saxon  maintains 
that  his  prayer  is  none  the  less  answered  even 
if  it  be  denied,  and  that  it  is  made  up  to  him 
in  some  roundabout  way.  It  is  inconceivable 
to  the  Anglo-Saxon  that  there  may  be  a  strain 
of  sadness  and  melancholy  in  the  very  mind 
of  God;  he  cannot  understand  that  there  can 
be  any  beauty  in  sorrow.  To  the  Celt,  sor- 
row itself  is  dear  and  beautiful,  and  the 
mournful  wailing  of  winds,  the  tears  of  the 
lowering  cloud,  afford  him  sweet  and  even 
luxurious  sensations.  The  memory  of  grief 
is  one  of  the  good  things  that  remain  to 
him,  as  life  draws  to  its  close;  for  love  is 
to  him  the  sister  of  grief  rather  than  the 
mother  of  joy.  But  this  is  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
mind  a  morbid  thing.  The  hours  in  which 
sorrow  has  overclouded  him  are  wasted,  deso- 
lated hours,  to  be  forgotten  and  obliterated  as 
soon  as  possible.  There  is  nothing  sacred 
about  them ;  they  are  sad  and  stony  tracts  over 
which  he  has  made  haste  to  cross,  and  the  only 
use  of  them  is  to  heighten  the  sense  of  secu- 


354  At  Large 

rity  and  joy.  And  thus  the  sort  of  sayings 
that  satisfy  and  sustain  the  Anglo-Saxon 
mind  are  such  irrepressible  outbursts  of  poets 
as  "  God  's  in  His  heaven ;  all 's  right  with  the 
world  " — the  latter  part  of  which  is  flagrantly 
contradicted  by  experience;  and,  as  for  the 
former  part,  if  it  be  true,  it  lends  no  comfort 
to  the  man  who  tries  to  find  his  God  in  the 
.world.  Again,  when  Browning  says  that  the 
world  "  means  intensely  and  means  good,"  he 
is  but  pouring  oil  upon  the  darting  flame  of 
optimism,  because  there  are  many  people  to 
whom  the  world  has  no  particular  meaning, 
and  few  who  can  re-echo  the  statement  that 
it  means  good.  That  some  rich  surprise,  in 
spite  of  palpable  and  hourly  experience  to  the 
contrary,  may  possibly  await  us,  is  the  most 
that  some  of  us  dare  to  hope. 

My  own  experience,  the  older  I  grow,  and 
the  more  I  see  of  life,  is  that  I  feel  it  to  be  a 
much  more  bewildering  and  even  terrifying 
thing  than  I  used  to  think  it.  To  use  a  meta- 
phor, instead  of  its  being  a  patient  educational 
process,  which  I  would  give  all  that  I  pos- 
sessed to  be  able  sincerely  to  believe  it  to  be, 
it  seems  to  me  arranged  far  more  upon  the 


Optimism  355 

principle  of  a  game  of  cricket — which  I  have 
always  held  to  be,  in  theory,  the  most  unjust 
and  fortuitous  of  games.  You  step  to  the 
wicket,  you  have  only  a  single  chance;  the 
boldest  and  most  patient  man  may  make  one 
mistake  at  the  outset,  and  his  innings  is  over; 
the  timid  tremulous  player  may  by  undeserved 
good  luck  contrive  to  keep  his  wicket  up,  till 
his  heart  has  got  into  the  right  place,  and  his 
eye  has  wriggled  straight,  and  he  is  set. 

That  is  the  first  horrible  fact  about  life — 
that  carelessness  is  often  not  penalised  at  all, 
whereas  sometimes  it  is  instantly  and  fiercely 
penalised.  One  boy  at  school  may  break  every 
law,  human  and  divine,  and  go  out  into  the 
world  unblemished.  Another  timid  and  good- 
natured  child  may  make  a  false  step,  and 
be  sent  off  into  life  with  a  permanent  cloud 
over  him.  School  life  often  emphasises  the 
injustice  of  the  world  instead  of  trying  to 
counteract  it.  Schoolmasters  tend  to  hustle 
the  weak  rather  than  to  curb  the  strong. 

And  then  we  pass  into  the  larger  world,  and 
what  do  we  see?  A  sad  confusion  every- 
where. We  see  an  innocent  and  beautiful 
girl  struck  down  by  a  long  and  painful  dis 


35^  At  Large 

ease — a  punishment  perhaps  appropriate  to 
some  robust  and  hoary  sinner,  who  has  gath- 
ered forbidden  fruit  with  both  his  hands,  and 
the  juices  of  which  go  down  to  the  skirts  of 
his  clothing;  or  a  brave  and  virtuous  man, 
with  a  wife  and  children  dependent  on  him, 
needed  if  ever  man  was,  kind,  beneficent, 
strong,  is  struck  down  out  of  life  in  a  moment. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  see  a  mean  and  cautious 
sinner,  with  no  touch  of  unselfishness  and  af- 
fection, guarded  and  secured  in  material  con- 
tentment. Let  any  one  run  over  in  his  mind 
the  memories  of  his  own  circle,  fill  up  the 
gaps,  and  ask  himself  bravely  and  frankly 
whether  he  can  trace  a  wise  and  honest  and 
beneficent  design  all  through.  He  may  try 
to  console  himself  by  saying  that  the  disasters 
of  good  people,  after  all,  are  the  exceptions, 
and  that,  as  a  rule,  courage  and  purity  of 
heart  are  rewarded,  while  cowardice  and  filthi- 
ness  are  punished.  But  what  room  is  there 
for  exceptions  in  a  world  governed  by  a  God 
whom  we  must  believe  to  be  all-powerful,  all- 
just,  and  all-loving?  It  is  the  wilful  sin  of 
man,  says  the  moralist,  that  has  brought  these 
hard  things  upon  him.    But  that  is  no  answer, 


Optimism  357 

for  the  dark  shadow  lies  as  sombrely  over 
irresponsible  nature,  which  groans  over  un- 
deserved suffering.  And  then,  to  make  the 
shadow  darker  still,  we  have  all  the  same  love 
of  life,  the  same  inalienable  sense  of  our  right 
to  happiness,  the  same  inheritance  of  love.  If 
we  could  but  see  that  in  the  end  pain  and  loss 
would  be  blest,  there  is  nothing  that  we  would 
not  gladly  bear.  Yet  that  sight,  too,  is  de- 
nied us. 

And  yet  we  live,  and  laugh,  and  hope,  and 
forget.  We  take  our  fill  of  tranquil  days  and 
pleasant  companies,  though  for  some  of  us  the 
thought  that  it  is  all  passing,  passing,  even 
while  we  lean  towards  it  smiling,  touches  the 
very  sunlight  with  pain.  "  How  morbid,  how 
self -tormenting !  "  says  the  prudent  friend,  if 
such  thoughts  escape  us.  "Why  not  enjoy 
delight  and  bear  the  pain?  That  is  life;  we 
cannot  alter  it."  But  not  on  such  terms  can 
I,  for  one,  live.  To  know,  to  have  some  as- 
surance— that  is  the  one  and  only  thing  that 
matters  at  all.  For  if  I  once  believed  that 
God  were  careless,  or  indifferent,  or  impotent, 
I  would  fly  from  life  as  an  accursed  thing; 
whereas  I  would  give  all  the  peace,  and  joy, 


35^  At  Large 

and  contentment,  that  may  yet  await  me  upon 
earth,  and  take  np  cheerfully  the  heaviest  bur- 
den that  could  be  devised  of  darkness  and 
pain,  if  I  could  be  sure  of  an  after-life  that 
will  give  us  all  the  unclouded  serenity,  and 
strength,  and  love,  for  which  we  crave  every 
moment.  Sometimes,  in  a  time  of  strength 
and  calm  weather,  when  the  sun  is  bright  and 
the  friend  I  love  is  with  me,  and  the  scent  of 
the  hyacinths  blows  from  the  wood,  I  have  no 
doubt  of  the  love  and  tenderness  of  God;  and, 
again,  when  I  wake  in  the  dreadful  dawn  to 
the  sharp  horror  of  the  thought  that  one  I 
love  is  suffering  and  crying  out  in  pain  and 
drifting  on  to  death,  the  beauty  of  the  world, 
the  familiar  scene,  is  full  of  a  hateful  and 
atrocious  insolence  of  grace  and  sweetness; 
and  then  I  feel  that  we  are  all  perhaps  in  the 
grip  of  some  relentless  and  inscrutable  law 
that  has  no  care  for  our  happiness  or  peace  at 
all,  and  works  blindly  and  furiously  in  the 
darkness,  bespattering  some  with  woe  and 
others  with  joy.  Those  are  the  blackest  and 
most  horrible  moments  of  life;  and  yet  even 
so  we  live  on. 
As  I  write  at  my  ease  I  see  the  velvety  grass 


optimism  359 

green  on  the  rich  pasture;  the  tall  spires  of 
the  chestnut  perch,  and  poise,  and  sway  in 
the  sun;  a  thrush  sings  hidden  in  the  orchard; 
it  is  all  caressingly,  enchantingly  beautiful, 
and  I  am  well  content  to  be  alive.  Looking 
backwards,  I  discern  that  I  have  had  my  share, 
and  more  than  my  share,  of  good  things.  But 
they  are  over;  they  are  mine  no  longer.  And 
even  as  I  think  the  thought,  the  old  church 
clock  across  the  fields  tells  out  another  hour 
that  is  fallen  softly  into  the  glimmering  past. 
If  I  could  discern  any  strength  or  patience 
won  from  hours  of  pain  and  sorrow  it  would 
be  easier;  but  the  memory  of  pain  makes  me 
dread  pain  the  more,  the  thought  of  past  sor- 
row makes  future  sorrow  still  more  black.  I 
would  rather  have  strength  than  tranquillity, 
when  all  is  done;  but  life  has  rather  taught  me 
my  weakness,  and  struck  the  garland  out  of 
my  reluctant  hand. 

To-day  I  have  been  riding  quietly  among 
fields  deep  with  buttercups  and  fringed  by 
clear,  slow  streams.  The  trees  are  in  full 
spring  leaf,  only  the  oaks  and  walnuts  a  little 
belated,  unfurling  their  rusty-red  fronds.  A 
waft  of  rich  scent  comes  from  a  hawthorn- 


360  At  Large 

hedge  where  a  hidden  cuckoo  flutes,  or  just 
where  the  lane  turns  by  the  old  water-mill, 
:which  throbs  and  grumbles  with  the  moving 
gear,  a  great  lilac-bush  leans  out  of  a  garden 
and  fills  the  air  with  perfume.  Yet,  as  I  go, 
I  am  filled  with  a  heavy  anxiety,  which  plays 
with  my  sick  heart  as  a  cat  plays  with  a 
mouse,  letting  it  run  a  little  in  the  sun,  and 
then  pouncing  upon  it  in  terror  and  dismay. 
The  beautiful  sounds  and  sights  round  me — 
the  sight  of  the  quiet,  leisurely  people  I  meet 
— ought,  one  would  think,  to  soothe  and  calm 
the  unquiet  heart.  But  they  do  not;  they 
rather  seem  to  mock  and  flout  me  with  a 
savage  insolence  of  careless  welfarQ.  My 
thoughts  go  back,  I  do  not  know  why,  to  an 
old  house  where  I  spent  many  happy  days,  now 
in  the  hands  of  strangers.  I  remember  sit- 
ting, one  of  a  silent  and  happy  party,  on  a  ter- 
race in  the  dusk  of  a  warm  summer  night, 
and  how  one  of  those  present  called  to  the 
owls  that  were  hooting  in  the  hanging  wood 
above  the  house,  so  that  they  drew  near  in 
answer  to  the  call,  flying  noiselessly  and  sud- 
denly uttering  their  plaintive  notes  from  the 
heart  of  the  great  chestnut  on  the  lawn.    Be- 


Optimism  361 

low  I  can  see  the  dewy  glimmering  fields,  the 
lights  of  the  little  port,  the  pale  sea-line.  It 
seems  now  all  impossibly  beautiful  and  tran- 
quil; but  I  know  that  even  then  it  was  often 
marred  by  disappointments,  and  troubles,  and 
fears.  Little  anxieties  that  have  all  melted 
softly  into  the  past,  that  were  easily  enough 
borne,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  yet,  looming 
up  as  they  did  in  the  future,  filled  the  days 
with  the  shadow  of  fear.  That  is  the  phantom 
that  one  ought  to  lay,  if  it  can  be  laid.  And 
is  there  hidden  somewhere  any  well  of  heal- 
ing, any  pure  source  of  strength  and  refresh- 
ment from  which  we  can  drink  and  be  calm 
and  brave?  That  is  a  question  which  each 
has  to  answer  for  himself.  For  myself,  I 
can  only  say  that  strength  is  sometimes 
given,  sometimes  denied.  How  foolish  to  be 
anxious!  Yes,  but  how  inevitable!  If  the 
beauty  and  the  joy  of  the  world  gave  one  as- 
surance in  dark  hours  that  all  was  certainly 
well,  the  pilgrimage  would  be  an  easy  one. 
But  can  one  be  optimistic  by  resolving  to  be? 
One  can,  of  course,  control  oneself,  one  can 
let  no  murmur  of  pain  escape  one,  one  can 
even  enunciate  deep  and  courageous  maxims 


362  At  Large 

because  one  would  not  trouble  the  peace  of 
others,  waiting  patiently  till  the  golden  mood 
returns.  But  what  if  the  desolate  conviction 
forces  itself  upon  the  mind  that  sorrow  is  the 
truer  thing?  What  if  one  tests  one's  own  ex- 
perience, and  sees  that,  under  the  pressure 
of  sorrow,  one  after  another  of  the  world's 
lights  are  extinguished,  health,  and  peace, 
and  beauty,  and  delight,  till  one  asks  oneself 
whether  sorrow  is  not  perhaps  the  truest  and 
most  actual  thing  of  all?  That  is  the  ghastli- 
est of  moments  when  everything  drops  from 
us  but  fear  and  horror,  when  we  think  that  we 
have  indeed  found  truth  at  last,  and  that  the 
answer  to  Pilate's  bitter  question  is  that  pain 
is  the  nearest  thing  to  truth  because  it  is  the 
strongest.  If  I  felt  that,  says  the  reluctant 
heart,  I  should  abandon  myself  to  despair. 
No,  says  sterner  reason,  you  would  bear  it, 
because  you  cannot  escape  from  it.  Into 
whatever  depths  of  despair  you  fell,  you  would 
still  be  upheld  by  the  law  that  bids  you  be. 

Where,  then,  is  the  hope  to  be  found?  It 
is  here;  One  is  tempted  to  think  of  God 
through  human  analogies  and  symbols.  We 
think  of  Him  as  of  a  potter  moulding  the  clay 


optimism  363 

to  his  will;  as  of  a  statesman  that  sways  a 
state;  as  of  an  artist  that  traces  a  fair  design. 
But  all  similitudes  and  comparisons  break 
down,  for  no  man  can  create  anything;  he  can 
but  modify  matter  to  his  ends,  and  when  he 
fails,  it  is  because  of  some  natural  law  that 
cuts  across  his  design  and  thwarts  him  relent- 
lessly. But  the  essence  of  God's  omnipotence 
is  that  both  law  and  matter  are  His  and  origi- 
nate from  Him;  so  that,  if  a  single  fibre  of 
what  we  know  to  be  evil  can  be  found  in  the 
world,  either  God  is  responsible  for  that,  or 
He  is  dealing  with  something  He  did  not  origi- 
nate and  cannot  overcome.  Nothing  can  ex- 
tricate us  from  this  dilemma,  except  the  belief 
that  what  we  think  evil  is  not  really  evil  at 
all,  but  hidden  good;  and  thus  we  have  firm 
ground  under  our  feet  at  last,  and  can  begin 
to  climb  out  of  the  abyss.  And  then  we  feel 
in  our  own  hearts  how  indomitable  is  our 
sense  of  our  right  to  happiness,  how  uncon- 
querable our  hope;  how  swiftly  we  forget  un- 
happiness;  how  firmly  we  remember  joy;  and 
then  we  see  that  the  one  absolutely  permanent 
and  vital  power  in  the  world  is  the  power  of 
love,  which  wins  victories  over  every  evil  we 


364  At  Large 

can  name;  and  if  it  is  so  plain  that  love  is  the 
one  essential  and  triumphant  force  in  the 
world,  it  must  be  the  very  heart-beat  of  God: 
till  we  feel  that  when  soon  or  late  the  day- 
comes  for  us,  when  our  swimming  eyes  discern 
ever  more  faintly  the  awe-struck  pitying  faces 
round  us,  and  the  senses  give  up  their  powers 
one  by  one,  and  the  tides  of  death  creep  on  us, 
and  the  daylight  dies — that  even  so  we  shall 
find  that  love  awaiting  us  in  the  region  to 
which  the  noblest  and  bravest  and  purest,  as 
well  as  the  vilest  and  most  timid  and  most 
soiled,  have  gone. 

This,  then,  is  the  only  optimism  that  is 
worth  the  name;  not  the  feeble  optimism  that 
brushes  away  the  darker  side  of  life  impa- 
tiently and  fretfully,  but  the  optimism  that 
dares  to  look  boldly  into  the  fiercest  miseries 
of  the  human  spirit,  and  to  come  back,  as 
Perseus  came,  pale  and  smoke-stained,  from 
the  dim  underworld,  and  say  that  there  is  yet 
hope  brightening  on  the  verge  of  the  gloom. 

What  one  desires,  then,  is  an  optimism  which 
arises  from  taking  a  wide  view  of  things  as 
they  are,  and  taking  the  worst  side  into  ac- 
count, not  an  optimism  which  is  only  made 


Optimism  365 

possible  by  wearing  blinkers.  I  was  reading 
a  day  or  two  ago  a  suggestive  and  brilliant 
book  by  one  of  our  most  prolific  critics,  Mr. 
Chesterton,  on  the  subject  of  Dickens.  Mr. 
Chesterton  is  of  opinion  that  our  modern  ten- 
dency to  pessimism  results  from  our  inveter- 
ate realism.  Contrasting  modern  fictions  with 
the  old  heroic  stories,  he  says  that  we  take 
some  indecisive  clerk  for  the  subject  of  a  story, 
and  call  the  weak-kneed  cad  "  the  hero."  He 
seems  to  think  that  we  ought  to  take  a  larger 
and  more  robust  view  of  human  possibilities 
and  keep  our  eyes  more  steadily  fixed  upon 
more  vigorous  and  generous  characters.  But 
the  result  of  this  is  the  ugly  and  unphilosophi- 
cal  kind  of  optimsm  after  all,  that  calls  upon 
God  to  despise  the  work  of  His  own  hands, 
that  turns  upon  all  that  is  feeble  and  unsightly 
and  vulgar  with  anger  and  disdain,  like  the 
man  in  the  parable  who  took  advantage  of  his 
being  forgiven  a  great  debt  to  exact  a  tiny 
one.  The  tragedy  is  that  the  knock-kneed 
clerk  is  all  in  all  to  himself.  In  clear-sighted 
and  imaginative  moments,  he  may  realise  in  a 
sudden  flash  of  horrible  insight  that  he  is  so 
far  from  being  what  he  would  desire  to  be — 


366  At  Large 

so  unheroic,  so  loosely  strung,  so  deplorable 
— and  yet  that  he  can  do  so  little  to  bridge  the 
gap.  The  only  method  of  manufacturing 
heroes  is  to  encourage  people  to  believe  in 
themselves  and  their  possibilities,  to  assure 
them  that  they  are  indeed  dear  to  God;  not 
to  reveal  relentlessly  to  them  their  essential 
lowness  and  shabbiness.  It  is  not  the  clerk's 
fault  that  his  mind  is  sordid  and  weak,  and 
that  his  knees  knock  together;  and  no  optim- 
ism is  worth  the  name  that  has  not  a  glorious 
message  for  the  vilest.  Or,  again,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  arrive  at  a  working  optimism  by  tak- 
ing a  very  dismal  view  of  everything.  There 
is  a  story  of  an  old  Calvinist  minister  whose 
daughter  lay  dying,  far  away,  of  a  painful 
disease,  who  wrote  her  a  letter  of  consolation, 
closing  with  the  words  "  Remember,  dear 
daughter,  that  all  short  of  Hell  is  mercy."  Of 
course  if  one  can  take  so  richly  decisive  a  view 
of  the  Creator's  purpose  for  his  creatures, 
and  look  upon  Hell  as  the  normal  destination 
from  which  a  few,  by  the  overpowering  con- 
descension of  God,  are  saved  and  separated, 
one  might  find  matter  of  joy  in  discovering 
one  soul  in  a  thousand  who  was  judged  worthy 


Optimism  367 

of  salvation.  But  this  again  is  a  clouded 
view,  because  it  takes  no  account  of  the  pro- 
found and  universal  preference  for  happiness 
in  the  human  heart,  and  erects  the  horrible 
ideal  of  a  Creator  who  deliberately  condemns 
the  vast  mass  of  His  creatures  to  a  fate  which 
He  has  no  less  deliberately  created  them  to 
abhor  and  dread. 

Our  main  temptation  after  all  lies  in  the 
fact  that  we  are  so  impatient  of  any  delay  or 
any  uneasiness.  We  are  like  the  child  who, 
when  first  confronted  with  suffering,  cannot 
bear  to  believe  in  its  existence,  and  who,  if  it 
is  prolonged,  cannot  believe  in  the  existence 
of  anything  else.  What  we  have  rather  to  do 
is  to  face  the  problem  strongly  and  coura- 
geously, to  take  into  account  the  worst  and 
feeblest  possibilities  of  our  nature,  and  yet 
not  to  overlook  the  fact  that  the  worst  and 
lowest  specimen  of  humanity  has  a  dim  ink- 
ling of  something  higher  and  happier,  to 
which  he  would  attain  if  he  knew  how. 

I  had  a  little  object-lesson  a  few  days  ago 
in  the  subject.  It  was  a  Bank  Holiday,  and 
I  walked  pensively  about  the  outskirts  of  a 
big  town.       The  streets  were   crowded  with 


368  At  Large 

people  of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  I  confess  that 
a  profound  melancholy  was  induced  in  me  by 
the  spectacle  of  the  young  of  both  sexes.  They 
were  enjoying  themselves,  it  is  true,  with  all 
their  might;  and  I  could  not  help  wondering 
why,  as  a  rule,  they  should  enjoy  themselves 
so  offensively.  The  girls  walked  about  titter- 
ing and  ogling;  the  young  men  were  noisy, 
selfish,  ill-mannered,  enjoying  nothing  so  much 
as  the  discomfiture  of  any  passer-by.  They 
pushed  each  other  into  ditches,  they  tripped 
up  a  friend  who  passed  on  a  bicycle,  and  all 
roared  in  concert  at  the  rueful  way  in  which 
he  surveyed  a  muddy  coat  and  torn  trousers. 
There  seemed  to  be  not  the  slightest  idea 
among  them  of  contributing  to  each  other's 
pleasure.  The  point  was  to  be  amused  at  the 
expense  of  another,  and  to  be  securely 
obstreperous. 

But  among  these  there  were  lovers  walking, 
faint  and  pale  with  mutual  admiration;  a 
young  couple  led  along  a  hideous  over-dressed 
child,  and  had  no  eyes  for  anything  except 
its  clumsy  movements  and  fatuous  questions. 
Or  an  elderly  couple  strolled  along,  pleased 
and  contented,  with  a  married  son  and  daugh- 


Optimism  369 

ter.  The  cure  of  the  vile  mirth  of  youth 
seemed  after  all  to  be  love  and  the  anxious 
care  of  other  lives. 

And  thus  indeed  a  gentle  optimism  did 
emerge,  after  all,  from  the  tangle.  I  felt  that 
it  was  strange  that  there  should  be  so  much 
to  breed  dissatisfaction.  I  struck  out  of  the 
town,  and  soon  was  passing  a  mill  in  broad 
water-meadows,  overhung  by  great  elms;  the 
grass  was  golden  with  buttercups,  the  foliage 
was  rich  upon  the  trees.  The  water  bubbled 
pleasantly  in  the  great  pool,  and  an  old  house 
thrust  a  pretty  gable  out  over  lilacs  clubbed 
with  purple  bloom.  The  beauty  of  the  place 
was  put  to  my  lips,  like  a  cup  of  the  waters 
of  comfort.  The  sadness  was  the  drift  of  hu- 
man life  out  of  sweet  places  such  as  this,  into 
the  town  that  overflowed  the  meadows  with 
its  avenues  of  mean  houses,  where  the  railway 
station,  with  its  rows  of  stained  trucks,  its 
cindery  floor,  its  smoking  engines,  buzzed  and 
roared  with  life. 

But  the  pessimism  of  one  who  sees  the  sim- 
ple life  fading  out,  the  ancient  quietude  in- 
vaded, the  country  caught  in  the  feelers  of  the 
town,  is  not  a  real  pessimism  at  all,  or  rather 


37©  At  Large 

it  is  a  pessimism  which  results  from  a  de- 
ficiency of  imagination,  and  is  only  a  matter 
of  personal  taste,  perhaps  of  personal  belated- 
ness.  Twelve  generations  of  my  own  family 
lived  and  died  as  Yorkshire  yeomen-farmers, 
and  my  own  preference  is  probably  a  matter 
of  instinctive  inheritance.  The  point  is  not 
what  a  few  philosophers  happen  to  like,  but 
what  humanity  likes,  and  what  it  is  happiest 
in  liking.  I  should  have  but  small  confidence 
in  the  Power  that  rules  the  world,  if  I  did  not 
believe  that  the  vast  social  development  of 
Europe,  its  civilisation,  its  net-work  of  com- 
munications, its  bustle,  its  tenser  living,  its 
love  of  social  excitement  was  not  all  part  of  a 
great  design.  I  do  not  believe  that  humanity 
is  perversely  astray,  hurrying  to  destruction. 
I  believe  rather  that  it  is  working  out  the  pos- 
sibilities that  lie  within  it;  and  if  human  be- 
ings had  been  framed  to  live  quiet  pastoral 
lives,  they  would  be  living  them  still.  The 
one  question  for  the  would-be  optimist  is 
whether  humanity  is  growing  nobler,  wiser, 
more  unselfish,  and  of  that  I  have  no  doubt 
whatever.  The  sense  of  equality,  of  the  rights 
of  the  weak,  compassion,  brotherliness,  bene- 


optimism  371 

volence  are  living  ideas,  throbbing  with  life; 
the  growth  of  the  power  of  democracyj  much 
as  it  may  tend  to  inconvenience  one  person- 
ally, is  an  entirely  hopeful  and  desirable  thing; 
and  if  a  man  is  disposed  to  pessimism,  he  ought 
to  ask  himself  seriously  to  what  extent  his 
pessimism  is  conditioned  by  his  own  individ- 
ual prospect  of  happiness.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible to  conceive  of  a  man  without  any  hope  of 
personal  immortality,  or  the  continuance  of 
individual  identity,  whose  future  might  be 
clouded,  say,  by  his  being  the  victim  of  a  pain- 
ful and  incurable  disease,  and  who  yet  might 
be  a  thorough-going  optimist  with  regard  to 
the  future  of  humanity.  Nothing  in  the  world 
could  be  so  indicative  of  the  rise  in  the  moral 
and  emotional  temperature  of  the  world  as 
the  fact  that  men  are  increasingly  disposed  to 
sacrifice  their  own  ambitions  and  their  own 
comfort  for  the  sake  of  others,  and  are  will- 
ing to  suffer,  if  the  happiness  of  the  race  may 
be  increased;  and  much  of  the  pessimism  that 
prevails  is  the  pessimism  of  egotists  and  in- 
dividualists, who  feel  no  interest  in  the  rising 
tide,  because  it  does  not  promise  to  themselves 
any    increase    in    personal    satisfaction.    No 


372  At  Large 

man  can  possibly  hold  the  continuance  of  per- 
sonal identity  to  be  an  indisputable  fact, 
because  there  is  no  sort  of  direct  evidence  on 
the  subject;  and  indeed  all  the  evidence  that 
exists  is  rather  against  the  belief  than  for 
it  The  belief  is  in  reality  based  upon  no- 
thing but  instinct  and  desire,  and  the  impos- 
sibility of  conceiving  of  life  as  existing  apart 
from  one's  own  perception.  But  even  if  a 
man  cannot  hold  that  it  is  in  any  sense  a 
certainty,  he  may  cherish  a  hope  that  it  is 
true,  and  he  may  be  generously  and  sincerely 
grateful  for  having  been  allowed  to  taste, 
through  the  medium  of  personal  conscious- 
ness, the  marvellous  experience  of  the  beauty 
and  interest  of  life,  its  emotions,  its  relation- 
ships, its  infinite  yearnings,  even  though  the 
curtain  may  descend  upon  his  own  conscious- 
ness of  it,  and  he  himself  may  become  as 
though  he  had  never  been,  his  vitality  blended 
afresh  in  the  vitality  of  the  world,  just  as  the 
body  of  his  life,  so  near  to  him,  so  seemingly 
his  own,  will  undoubtedly  be  fused  and  blent 
afresh  in  the  sum  of  matter.  A  man,  even 
though  racked  with  pain  and  tortured  with 
anxiety,     may     deliberately     and     resolutely 


Optimism  373 

throw  himself  into  sympathy  with  the  mighty 
will  of  God,  and  cherish  this  noble  and  awe- 
inspiring  thought — the  thought  of  the  onward 
march  of  humanity;  righting  wrongs,  amend- 
ing errors,  fighting  patiently  against  pain  and 
evil,  until,  perhaps  far-off  and  incredibly  re- 
mote, our  successors  and  descendants,  linked 
indeed  with  us  in  body  and  soul  alike,  may 
enjoy  that  peace  and  tranquillity,  that  harmony 
of  soul,  which  we  ourselves  can  only  momen- 
tarily and  transitorily  obtain. 


XVII 

Joy 

DR.  ARNOLD  somewhere  says  that  the 
schoolmaster's  experience  of  being  coin- 
tinually  in  the  presence  of  the  hard  mechani- 
cal high  spirits  of  boyhood  is  an  essentially 
depressing  thing.  It  seemed  to  him  depress- 
ing just  because  that  happiness  was  so  purely 
incidental  to  youth  and  health,  and  did  not 
proceed  from  any  sense  of  principle,  any  re- 
serve of  emotion,  any  self-restraint,  any  activ- 
ity of  sympathy.  I  confess  that  in  my  own 
experience  as  a  schoolmaster  the  particular 
phenomenon  was  sometimes  a  depressing  thing 
and  sometimes  a  relief.  It  was  depressing 
when  one  was  overshadowed  by  a  fretful 
anxiety  or  a  real  sorrow,  because  no  appeal 
to  it  seemed  possible:  it  had  a  heartless  quality. 
But  again  it  was  a  relief  when  it  distracted 
one  from  the  pressure  of  a  troubled  thought, 
as  when,  in  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  the  sorrow- 

374 


Joy  375 

ful  queen  was  comforted  by  the  little  maiden 
"  who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heedlessness, 
which  often  lured  her  from  herself." 

One  felt  that  one  had  no  right  to  let  the 
sense  of  anxiety  overshadow  the  natural 
cheerfulness  of  boyhood,  and  then  one  made 
the  effort  to  detach  oneself  from  one's  pre- 
occupations, with  the  result  that  they  pres- 
ently weighed  less  heavily  upon  the  heart. 

The  blessing  would  be  if  one  could  find  in 
experience  a  quality  of  joy  which  should  be 
independent  of  natural  high  spirits  altogether, 
a  cheerful  tranquillity  of  outlook,  which  should 
become  almost  instinctive  through  practice,  a 
mood  which  one  could  at  all  events  evoke  in 
such  a  way  as  to  serve  as  a  shield  and  screen 
to  one's  own  private  troubles,  or  which  at  least 
would  prevent  one  from  allowing  the  shadow 
of  one's  discontent  to  fall  over  others. 
But  it  must  be  to  a  certain  extent  tempera- 
mental. Just  as  high  animal  spirits  in  some 
people  are  irrepressible,  and  bubble  up  even 
under  the  menace  of  irreparable  calamity,  so 
gloom  of  spirit  is  a  very  contagious  thing,  very 
difficult  to  dissimulate.  Perhaps  the  best 
practical    thing   for    a    naturally    melancholy 


376  At  Large 

person  to  try  and  do,  is  to  treat  his  own  low 
spirits,  as  Charles  Lamb  did,  ironically  and 
humorously;  and  if  he  must  spin  conversation 
incessantly,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said,  out  of  his 
own  bowels,  to  make  sure  that  it  is  the  best 
thread  possible,  and  of  a  gossamer  quality. 

The  temperamental  fact  upon  which  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  a  philosophical  cheerfulness 
is  based  is  after  all  an  ultimate  hopeful- 
ness. Some  people  have  a  remarkable  staying 
power,  a  power  of  looking  through  and  over 
present  troubles,  and  consoling  themselves 
with  pleasant  visions  of  futurity.  This  is 
commoner  with  women  than  with  men,  because 
women  derive  a  greater  happiness  from  the 
happiness  of  those  about  them  than  men  do. 
A  woman  as  a  rule  would  prefer  that  the  peo- 
ple who  surround  her  should  be  cheerful,  even 
if  she  were  not  cheerful  herself;  whereas  a 
man  is  often  not  ill-pleased  that  his  moods 
should  be  felt  by  his  circle,  and  regards  it  as 
rather  an  insult  that  other  people  should  be 
joyful  when  he  is  ill-at-ease.  Some  people, 
too,  have  a  stronger  dramatic  sense  than 
others,  and  take  an  artistic  pleasure  in  play- 
ing a  part.    I  knew  a  man  who  was  a  great 


Joy  377 

invalid  and  a  frequent  sufferer,  who  took  a 
great  pleasure  in  appearing  in  public  func- 
tions. He  would  drag  himself  from  his  bed  to 
make  a  public  appearance  of  any  kind.  I 
think  that  he  consoled  himself  by  believing 
that  he  did  so  from  a  strong  and  sustaining 
sense  of  duty;  but  I  believe  that  the  pleasure 
of  the  thing  was  really  at  the  root  of  his  effort, 
as  it  is  at  the  root  of  most  of  the  duties  we 
faithfully  perform.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  had 
a  strong  natural  vanity,  though  his  enemies 
accused  him  of  it.  But  publicity  was  natu- 
rally congenial  to  him,  and  the  only  sign,  as  a 
rule,  that  he  was  suffering,  when  he  made  such 
an  appearance,  was  a  greater  deliberation  of 
movement,  and  a  ghastly  fixity  of  smile.  As 
to  the  latter  phenomenon,  a  man  with  the 
dramatic  sense  strongly  developed  will  no 
doubt  take  a  positive  pleasure  in  trying  to 
obliterate  from  his  face  and  manner  all  traces 
of  his  private  discomfort.  Such  stoicism  is  a 
fine  quality  in  its  way,  but  the  quality  that  I 
am  in  search  of  is  an  even  finer  one  than  that. 
My  friend's  efforts  were  ultimately  based  on 
a  sort  of  egotism,  a  profound  conviction  that 
a   public   part  suited  him,   and   that  he  per- 


37^  At  Large 

formed  it  well.  What  one  rather  desires  to 
attain  is  a  more  sympathetic  quality,  an  in- 
terest in  other  people  so  vital  and  inspiring 
that  one's  own  personal  sufferings  are  light  in 
the  scale  when  weighed  against  the  enjoyment 
of  others.  It  is  not  impossible  to  develop  this 
in  the  face  of  considerable  bodily  suffering. 
One  of  the  most  inveterately  cheerful  people 
I  have  ever  known  was  a  man  who  suffered 
from  a  painful  and  irritating  complaint,  but 
whose  geniality  and  good-will  were  so  strong 
that  they  not  onl}'^  overpowered  his  malaise, 
but  actually  afforded  him  considerable  relief. 
Some  people  who  suffer  can  only  suffer  in 
solitude.  They  have  to  devote  the  whole  of 
their  nervous  energies  to  the  task  of  endur- 
ance; but  others  find  society  an  agreeable 
distraction,  and  fly  to  it  as  an  escape  from 
discomfort.  I  suppose  that  every  one  has 
experienced  at  times  that  extraordinary 
rebellion,  so  to  speak,  of  cheerfulness  against 
an  attack  of  physical  pain.  There  have  been 
days  when  I  have  suffered  from  some  small 
but  acutely  disagreeable  ailment,  and  yet 
found  my  cheerfulness  not  only  not  dimmed 
but  apparently  enhanced  by  the  physical  suf- 


Joy  379 

fering.  Of  course  there  are  maladies  even  of 
a  serious  kind  of  which  one  of  the  symptoms 
is  a  great  mental  depression,  but  there  are 
other  maladies  which  seem  actually  to  pro- 
duce an  instinctive  hopefulness. 

But  the  question  is  whether  it  is  possible,  by 
sustained  effort,  to  behave  independently  of 
one's  mood,  and  what  motive  is  strong  enough 
to  make  one  detach  oneself  resolutely  from 
discomforts  and  woes.  Good  manners  provide 
perhaps  the  most  practical  assistance.  The 
people  who  are  brought  up  with  a  tradition  of 
highbred  courtesy,  and  who  learn  almost  in- 
stinctively to  repress  their  own  individuality, 
can  generally  triumph  over  their  moods.  Per- 
haps in  their  expansive  moments  they  lose  a 
little  spontaneity  in  the  process;  they  are 
cheerful  rather  than  buoyant,  gentle  rather 
than  pungent.  But  the  result  is  that  when 
the  mood  shifts  into  depression,  they  are  still 
imperturbably  courteous  an^  considerate.  A 
neap  relation  of  a  great  public  man,  who  suf- 
fered greatly  from  mental  depression,  has  told 
me  that  some  of  the  most  painful  minutes  he 
has  ever  been  witness  of  were,  when  the  great 
man,  after  behaving  on  some  occasion  of  social 


380  At  Large 

festivity  with  an  admirable  and  sustained 
gaiety,  fell  for  a  moment  into  irreclaimable 
and  hopeless  gloom  and  fatigue,  and  then 
again,  by  a  resolute  effort,  became  strenuously 
considerate  and  patient  in  the  privacy  of  the 
family  circle. 

Some  people  achieve  the  same  mastery  over 
mood  by  an  intensity  of  religious  conviction. 
But  the  worst  of  that  particular  triumph  is 
that  an  attitude  of  chastened  religious  pa- 
tience is,  not  unusually,  a  rather  depressing 
thing.  It  is  so  restrained,  so  pious,  that  it 
tends  to  deprive  life  of  natural  and  unaffected 
joy.  If  it  is  patient  and  submissive  in  afflic- 
tion, it  is  also  tame  and  mild  in  cheerful  sur- 
roundings. It  issues  too  frequently  in  a  kind 
of  holy  tolerance  of  youthful  ebullience  and 
vivid  emotions.  It  results  in  the  kind  of  char- 
acter that  is  known  as  saintly,  and  is  gener- 
ally accompanied  by  a  strong  deficiency  in  the 
matter  of  humour.  Life  is  regarded  as  too 
serious  a  business  to  be  played  with,  and  the 
delight  in  trifles,  which  is  one  of  the  surest 
signs  of  healthy  energy,  becomes  ashamed  and 
abashed  in  its  presence.  The  atmosphere  that 
it  creates  is  oppressive,  remote,  ungenial.    "  I 


Joy  381 

declare  that  Uncle  Jolin  is  intolerable,  except 
when  there  is  a  death  in  the  family — and  then 
he  is  insupportable,"  said  a  youthful  nephew 
of  a  virtuous  clergyman  of  this  type  in  my 
presence  the  other  day,  adding,  after  reflec- 
tion, "  He  seems  to  think  that  to  die  is  the 
only  really  satisfactory  thing  that  any  one 
ever  does."  That  is  the  worst  of  carrying  out 
the  precept,  "  Set  your  affections  on  things 
above,  not  on  things  of  the  earth,"  too  liter- 
ally. It  is  not  so  good  a  precept,  after  all,  as 
"  If  a  man  love  not  his  brother,  whom  he  hath 
seen,  how  shall  he  love  God,  whom  he  hath' 
not  seen  ? "  It  is  somehow  an  incomplete 
philosophy  to  despise  the  only  definite  exist- 
ence we  are  certain  of  possessing.  One  de- 
sires a  richer  thing  than  that,  a  philosophy 
that  ends  in  temperance,  rather  than  in  a 
harsh  asceticism. 

The  handling  of  life  that  seems  the  most  de- 
sirable is  the  method'  which  the  Platonic  So- 
crates employed.  Perhaps  he  was  an  ideal 
figure;  but  yet  there  are  few  figures  more  real. 
There  we  have  an  elderly  man  of  incomparable 
ugliness,  who  is  yet  delightfully  and  per- 
ennially youthful,   bubbling  over   with   inter- 


382  At  Large 

est,  affection,  courtesy,  humour,  admiration. 
With  what  a  delicious  mixture  of  irony  and 
tenderness  he  treats  the  young  men  who  sur- 
round him!  When  some  lively  sparks  made 
up  their  minds  to  do  what  we  now  call  "  rag  " 
him,  dressed  themselves  up  as  Furies,  and 
ran  out  upon  him  as  he  turned  a  dark  corner 
on  his  way  home,  Socrates  was  not  in  the 
least  degree  disturbed,  but  discoursed  with 
them  readily  on  many  matters  and  particu- 
larly on  temperance;  when  at  the  banquet  the 
topers  disappear,  one  by  one,  under  the  table, 
Socrates,  who,  besides  taking  his  due  share  of 
the  wine,  had  filled  and  drunk  the  contents  of 
the  wine-cooler,  is  found  cheerfully  sitting, 
crowned  with  roses,  among  the  expiring 
lamps,  in  the  grey  of  the  morning,  discussing 
the  higher  mathematics.  He  is  never  sick  or 
sorry;  he  is  poor  and  has  a  scolding  wife;  he 
fasts  or  eats  as  circumstances  dictate;  he 
never  does  anything  in  particular,  but  he  has 
always  infinite  leisure  to  have  his  talk  out. 
Is  he  drawn  for  military  service?  he  goes  off, 
with  an  entire  indifference  to  the  hardships  of 
the  campaign.  When  the  force  is  routed,  he 
stalks  deliberately  off  the  field,  looking  round 


Joy  383 

him  like  a  great  bird,  with  the  kind  of  air  that 
makes  pursuers  let  people  alone,  as  Alcibiades 
said.  And  when  the  final  catastrophe  draws 
near,  he  defends  himself  under  a  capital 
charge  with  infinite  good-humour;  he  has  cared 
nothing  for  slander  and  misrepresentation  all 
his  life,  and  why  should  he  begin  now?  In 
the  last  inspired  scene,  he  is  the  only  man  of 
the  group  who  keeps  his  courteous  tranquillity 
to  the  end ;  he  had  been  sent  into  the  world,  he 
had  lived  his  life,  why  should  he  fear  to  be 
dismissed?  It  matters  little,  in  the  presence 
of  this  august  imagination,  if  the  real  Socrates 
was  a  rude  and  prosy  person,  who  came  by 
his  death  simply  because  the  lively  Athenians 
could  tolerate  anything  but  a  bore! 

The  Socratic  attitude  is  better  than  the 
highbred  attitude;  it  is  better  than  the  stoical 
attitude,  it  is  even  better  than  the  pious 
attitude;  because  it  depends  upon  living  life 
to  the  uttermost,  rather  than  upon  detaching 
oneself  from  what  one  considers  rather  a  poor 
business.  The  attitude  of  Socrates  is  based 
upon  courage,  generosity,  simplicity.  He 
knows  that  it  is  with  fear  that  we  weight  our 
melancholy  sensibilities;  that  it  is  with  mean- 


384  At  Large 

ness  and  coldness  that  we  poison  life,  that  it 
is  with  complicated  conventional  duties  that 
we  fetter  our  weakness.  Socrates  has  no  per- 
sonal ambitions,  and  thus  he  is  rid  of  all  envy 
and  uncharitableness ;  he  sees  the  world  as  it 
is,  a  very  bright  and  brave  place,  teeming  with 
interesting  ideas  and  undetermined  problems. 
Where  Christianity  has  advanced  upon  this — 
for  it  has  advanced  splendidly  and  securely — 
is  in  interpreting  life  less  intellectually.  The 
intellectual  side  of  life  is  what  Socrates 
adores;  the  Christian  faith  is  applicable  to 
a  far  wider  circle  of  homely  lives.  Yet 
Christianity  too,  in  spite  of  ecclesiasticism, 
teems  with  ideas.  Its  essence  is  an  unpre- 
judiced freedom  of  soul.  Its  problems  are 
problems  of  character  which  the  simplest  child 
can  appreciate.  But  Christianity,  too,  is 
built  upon  a  basis  of  joy.  "  Freely  ye  have  re- 
ceived, freely  give,"  is  its  essential  maxim. 

The  secret  then  is  to  enjoy;  but  the  enjoy- 
ment must  not  be  that  of  the  spoiler  who  car- 
ries away  all  that  he  can,  and  buries  it  in  his 
tent;  but  the  joy  of  relationship,  the  joy  of 
conspiring  together  to  be  happy,  the  joy  of 
consoling  and  sympathising  and  sharing,  be- 


Joy  3^5 

cause  we  have  received  so  much.  Of  course 
there  remain  the  limitations  of  temperament, 
the  difficulty  of  preventing  our  own  acrid 
humours  from  overflowing  into  other  lives ;  but 
this  cannot  be  overcome  by  repression;  it  can 
only  be  overcome  by  tenderness.  There  are 
very  few  people  who  have  not  the  elements  of 
this  in  their  character.  I  can  count  upon  my 
fingers  the  malevolent  men  I  know,  who  prefer 
making  others  uncomfortable  to  trying  to 
make  them  glad;  and  all  these  men  have  been 
bullied  in  their  youth,  and  are  unconsciously 
protecting  themselves  against  bullying  still. 
We  grow  selfish,  no  doubt,  for  want  of  prac- 
tice; ill-health  makes  villains  of  some  of  us. 
But  we  can  learn,  if  we  desire  it,  to  keep  our 
grufifness  for  our  own  consumption,  and  a  very 
few  experiments  will  soon  convince  us  that 
there  are  few  pleasures  in  the  world  so  reason- 
able and  so  cheap,  as  the  pleasure  of  giving 
pleasure. 

But,  after  all,  the  resolute  cheerfulness  that 
can  be  to  a  certain  extent  captured  and  secured 
by  an  effort  of  the  will,  though  it  is  perhaps 
a  more  useful  quality  than  natural  joy,  and 
no  doubt  ranks  together  in  the  moral  scale,  is 

85 


386  At  Large 

not  to  be  compared  with  a  certain  unreason- 
ing, incommunicable  rapture  which  sometimes, 
without  conscious  efiforts  or  desire,  descends 
upon  the  spirit,  like  sunshine  after  rain.  Let 
me  quote  a  recent  experience  of  my  own  which 
may  illustrate  it. 

A  few  days  ago,  I  had  a  busy  tiresome 
morning  hammering  into  shape  a  stupid  pro- 
saic passage,  of  no  suggestiveness ;  a  mere 
statement,  the  only  beauty  of  which  could  be 
that  it  should  be  absolutely  lucid;  and  this 
beauty  it  resolutely  refused  to  assume.  Then 
the  agent  called  to  see  me,  and  we  talked  busi- 
ness of  a  dull  kind.  Then  I  walked  a  little 
way  among  fields;  and  when  I  was  in  a  pleas- 
ant flat  piece  of  ground,  full  of  thickets, 
where  the  stream  makes  a  bold  loop  among 
willows  and  alders,  the  sun  set  behind  a  great 
bastion  of  clouds  that  looked  like  a  huge  forti- 
fication. It  had  been  one  of  those  days  of 
cloudless  skies,  all  flooded  with  the  pale  cold 
honey-coloured  light  of  the  winter  sun,  until  a 
sense  almost  of  spring  came  into  the  air;  and 
in  a  sheltered  place  I  found  a  little  golden 
hawk-weed  in  full  flower. 

It  had  not  been  a  satisfactory  day  at  all  to 


Joy  387 

me.  The  statement  that  I  had  toiled  so  hard 
all  the  morning  to  make  clear  was  not  par- 
ticularly worth  making;  it  could  effect  but 
little  at  best,  and  I  had  only  worked  at  it  in 
a  British  doggedness  of  spirit,  regardless  of 
its  value  and  only  because  I  was  determined 
not  to  be  beaten  by  it. 

But  for  all  that  I  came  home  in  a  rare  and 
delightful  frame  of  mind,  as  if  I  had  heard  a 
brief  and  delicate  passage  of  music,  a  con- 
spiracy of  sweet  sounds  and  rich  tones;  or 
as  if  I  had  passed  through  a  sweet  scent,  such 
as  blows  from  a  cloverfield  in  summer.  There 
was  no  definite  thought  to  disentangle;  it  was 
rather  as  if  I  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  land 
which  lies  east  of  the  sun  and  west  of  the 
moon,  had  seen  the  towers  of  a  castle  rise  over 
a  wood  of  oaks;  met  a  company  of  serious 
people  in  comely  apparel  riding  blithely  on 
the  turf  of  a  forest  road,  who  had  waved  me  a 
greeting,  and  left  me  wondering  out  of  what 
rich  kind  of  scene  they  had  stepped  to  bless 
me.  It  left  me  feeling  as  though  there  were 
some  beautiful  life,  very  near  me,  all  around 
me,  behind  the  mirror,  outside  of  the  door, 
beyond  the  garden-hedges,  if  I  could  but  learn 


388  At  Large 

the  spell  which  would  open  it  to  me;  left  me 
pleasantly  and  happily  athirst  for  a  life  of 
gracious  influences  and  of  an  unknown  and 
perfect  peace;  such  as  creeps  over  the  mind 
for  the  moment  at  the  sight  of  a  deep  wood- 
land at  sunset,  when  the  forest  is  veiled  in  the 
softest  of  blue  mist;  or  at  the  sound  of  some 
creeping  sea,  beating  softly  all  night  on  a  level 
sand;  or  at  the  prospect  of  a  winter  sun  going 
down  into  smoky  orange  vapours  over  a  wide 
expanse  of  pastoral  country;  or  at  the  soft 
close  of  some  solemn  music — when  peace  seems 
not  only  desirable  beyond  all  things  but  at- 
tainable too. 

How  can  one  account  for  this  sudden  and 
joyful  visitation?  I  am  going  to  try  and  set 
down  what  I  believe  to  be  the  explanation,  if 
I  can  reduce  to  words  a  thought  which  is  per- 
fectly clear  to  me,  however  transcendental  it 
may  seem. 

Well,  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  one  feels 
just  as  one  may  feel  when  from  the  streets  of  a 
dark  and  crowded  city,  with  the  cold  shadow 
of  a  cloud  passing  over  it,  one  sees  the  green 
head  of  a  mountain  over  the  housetops,  all 
alone  with  the  wind  and  the  sun,  with  its  crag- 


Joy  389 

bastions,  its  terraces  and  winding  turf  ways. 

The  peace  that  thus  blesses  one  is  not,  I 
think,  a  merely  subjective  mood,  an  imagined 
thing.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  real  and  actual  thing 
which  is  there.  One's  consciousness  does  not 
create  its  impressions,  one  does  not  make  for 
oneself  the  moral  and  artistic  ideas  that  visit 
one;  one  perceives  them.  Education  is  not  a 
process  of  invention — it  is  a  process  of  discov- 
ery; a  process  of  learning  the  names  given  to 
things  that  are  all  present  in  one's  own  mind. 
One  knows  things  long  before  one  knows  the 
names  for  them,  by  instinct  and  by  intuition; 
and  one's  own  mind  is  simply  a  part  of  a  large 
and  immortal  life,  which  for  a  time  is  fenced 
by  a  little  barrier  of  identity,  just  as  a  tiny 
pool  of  sea- water  on  a  sea-beach  is  for  a  few 
hours  separated  from  the  great  tide  to  which 
it  belongs.  All  our  regrets,  remorses,  anxie- 
ties, troubles  arise  from  our  not  realising  that 
we  are  but  a  part  of  this  greater  and  wider 
life,  from  our  delusion  that  we  are  alone  and 
apart  instead  of,  as  is  the  case,  one  with  the 
great  ocean  of  life  and  joy. 

Sometimes,  I  know  not  why  and  how,  we 
are  for  a  moment  or  two  in  touch  with  the 


290  At  Large 

larger  life — to  some  it  comes  in  religion,  to 
some  in  love^  to  some  in  art.  Perhaps  a  wave 
of  the  onward  sweeping  tide  beats  for  an  in- 
stant into  the  little  pool  we  call  our  own,  stir- 
ring the  fringing  weed,  bubbling  sharply  and 
freshly  upon  the  sleeping  sand. 

The  sad  mistake  we  make  is,  when  such  a 
moment  comes,  to  feel  as  though  it  were  only 
the  stirring  of  our  own  feeble  imagination. 
What  we  ought  rather  to  do  is  by  every  effort 
we  can  make  to  welcome  and  comprehend  this 
dawning  of  the  larger  life  upon  us;  not  to 
sink  back  peevishly  into  our  own  limits  and 
timidly  to  deplore  them,  but  resolutely  to  open 
the  door  again  and  again — for  the  door  can  be 
opened — to  the  light  of  the  great  sun  that 
lies  so  broadly  about  us.  Every  now  and  then 
we  have  some  startling  experience  which  re- 
veals to  us  our  essential  union  with  other 
individuals.  We  have  many  of  us  had  experi- 
ences which  seem  to  indicate  that  there  is  at 
times  a  direct  communication  with  other 
minds,  independent  of  speech  or  writing;  and 
even  if  we  have  not  had  such  experiences,  it 
has  been  scientifically  demonstrated  that  such 
things  can  occur.     Telepathy,  as  it  is  clumsily 


Joy  391 

called,  which  is  nothing  more  than  this  direct 
communication  of  mind,  is  a  thing  which  has 
been  demonstrated  in  a  way  which  no  reason- 
able person  can  reject.  We  may  call  it  ab- 
normal if  we  like,  and  it  is  true  that  we  do 
not  as  yet  know  under  what  conditions  it 
exists;  but  it  is  as  much  there  as  electrical 
communication,  and  just  as  the  electrician 
does  not  create  the  viewless  ripples  which  his 
delicate  instruments  can  catch  and  record,  but 
merely  makes  it  a  matter  of  mechanics  to  de- 
tect them,  so  the  ripple  of  human  intercom- 
munication is  undoubtedly  there;  and  when 
we  have  discovered  what  its  laws  are,  we  shall 
probably  find  that  it  underlies  many  things, 
such  as  enthusiasms,  movements,  the  spirit 
of  a  community,  patriotism,  martial  ardour, 
which  now  appear  to  us  to  be  isolated  and  mys- 
terious phenomena. 

But  there  is  a  larger  thing  than  even  that 
behind.  In  humanity  we  have  merely  a  cer- 
tain portion  of  this  large  life,  which  may 
spread  for  all  we  know  beyond  the  visible  uni- 
verse, globed  and  bounded,  like  the  spray  of  a 
fountain,  into  little  separate  individualities. 
Some    of    the    urgent    inexplicable    emotions 


392  At  Large 

which  visit  us  from  time  to  time,  immense, 
far-reaching,  mysterious,  are,  I  believe  with 
all  my  heart,  the  pulsations  of  this  vast  life 
outside  us,  stirring  for  an  instant  the  silence 
of  our  sleeping  spirit.  It  is  possible,  I  cannot 
help  feeling,  that  those  people  live  the  best  of 
all  possible  lives  who  devote  themselves  to  re- 
ceiving these  pulsations.  It  may  well  be  that 
in  following  anxiously  the  movement  of  the 
world,  in  giving  ourselves  to  politics  or  busi- 
ness, or  technical  religion,  or  material  cares, 
we  are  but  delaying  the  day  of  our  freedom  by 
throwing  ourselves  intently  into  our  limita- 
tions, and  forgetting  the  wider  life.  It  may 
be  that  the  life  which  Christ  seems  to  have 
suggested  as  the  type  of  Christian  life — the 
life  of  constant  prayer,  simple  and  kindly  re- 
lations, indifference  to  worldly  conditions, 
absence  of  ambitions,  fearlessness,  sincerity — 
may  be  the  life  in  which  we  can  best  draw  near 
to  the  larger  spirit,  for  Christ  spoke  as  one 
who  knew  some  prodigious  secret,  as  one  in 
whose  soul  the  larger  life  leapt  and  plunged 
like  fresh  sea-billows;  who  was  incapable  of 
sin  and  even  of  temptation,  because  his  soul 
had  free  and  open  contact  with  the  all-pervad- 


Joy  393 

ing  spirit,  and  to  whom  the  human  limitations, 
were  no  barrier  at  all. 

We  do  not  know  as  yet  the  mechanical 
means,  so  to  speak,  by  which  the  connection 
can  be  established,  the  door  set  wide.  But  we 
can  at  least  open  our  soul  to  every  breathing 
of  divine  influences;  and  when  the  great  wind 
rises  and  thunders  in  our  spirits,  we  can  see 
that  no  claim  of  business,  or  weakness,  or 
comfort,  or  convention  shall  hinder  us  from 
admitting  it. 

And  thus  when  one  of  these  sweet,  high  up- 
lifting thoughts  draws  near  and  visits  us,  we 
can  but  say,  as  the  child  Samuel  said  in  the 
dim-lit  temple,  "  Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant 
heareth."  The  music  comes  upon  the  air,  in 
faint  and  tremulous  gusts;  it  dies  away  across 
the  garden,  over  the  far  hill-side,  into  the 
cloudless  sky;  but  we  have  heard;  we  are  not 
the  same;  we  are  transfigured. 

Why  then,  lastly,  it  may  be  asked,  do  these 
experiences  befall  us  so  faintly,  so  secretly,  so 
seldom;  if  it  is  the  true  life  that  beats  so 
urgently  into  our  souls,  why  are  we  often 
so  careful  and  disquieted,  why  do  we  fare  such 
long  spaces  without  the  heavenly  vision,  why 


394  At  Large 

do  we  see,  or  seem  to  seej  so  many  of  our  fel- 
lows to  whom  such  things  come  rarely  or  not 
at  all?  I  cannot  answer  that;  yet  I  feel  that 
the  life  is  there;  and  I  can  but  fall  back  upon 
the  gentle  words  of  the  old  saint,  who  wrote: 
*'  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  the  more  the  re- 
alities of  heaven  are  clothed  with  obscurity, 
the  more  they  delight  and  attract ;  and  nothing 
so  much  heightens  longing  as  such  tender 
refusal." 


XVIII 
The  Love  of  God 

HOW  strange  it  is  that  what  is  often  the 
latest  reward  of  the  toiler  after  holi- 
ness, the  extreme  solace  of  the  outwearied 
saint,  should  be  too  often  made  the  first  irk- 
some article  of  a  childish  creed!  To  tell  a 
child  that  it  is  a  duty  to  love  God  better  than 
father  or  mother,  sisters  and  brothers,  better 
than  play,  or  stories,  or  food,  or  toys,  what 
a  monstrous  thing  is  that!  It  is  one  of  the 
things  that  make  religion  into  a  dreary  and 
darkling  shadow,  that  haunt  the  path  of  the 
innocent.  The  child's  love  is  all  for  tangible, 
audible,  and  visible  things.  Love  for  him 
means  kind  words  and  smiling  looks,  ready 
comfort  and  lavished  kisses;  the  child  does 
not  even  love  things  for  being  beautiful,  but 
for  being  what  they  are — curious,  characteris- 
tic, interesting.  He  loves  the  odd  frowsy 
smell   of   the   shut-up   attic,  the   bright   ugly 

39S 


39^  At  Large 

ornaments  of  the  chimney-piece,  the  dirt  of 
the  street.  He  has  no  sense  of  critical  taste. 
Besides,  words  mean  so  little  to  him,  or  even 
bear  quaint,  fantastic  associations,  which  no 
one  can  divine,  and  which  he  himself  is  unable 
to  express;  he  has  no  notion  of  an  abstract, 
essential,  spiritual  thing,  apart  from  what  is 
actual  to  his  senses.  And  then  into  this  little 
concrete  mind,  so  full  of  small  definite  images, 
so  faltering  and  frail,  is  thrust  this  vast,  re- 
mote notion — that  he  is  bound  to  love  some- 
thing hidden  and  terrible,  something  that  looks 
at  him  from  the  blank  sky  when  he  is  alone 
among  the  garden-beds,  something  which 
haunts  empty  rooms  and  the  dark  brake  of  the 
woodland.  Moreover,  a  child,  with  its  pre- 
ternatural sensitiveness  to  pain,  its  bewil- 
dered terror  of  punishment,  learns,  side  by 
side  with  this,  that  the  God  whom  he  is  to 
love  thus  tenderly  is  the  God  who  lays  about 
Him  so  fiercely  in  the  Old  Testament,  slaying 
the  innocent  with  the  guilty,  merciless,  harsh, 
inflicting  the  irreparable  stroke  of  death, 
where  a  man  would  be  concerned  with  desir- 
ing amendment  more  than  vengeance.  The 
simple  questions  with  which  the  man  Friday 


The  Love  of  God  397 

poses  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  to  which  he  re- 
ceives so  ponderous  an  answer,  are  the  ques- 
tions which  naturally  arise  in  the  mind  of 
any  thoughtful  child.  Why,  if  God  be  so  kind 
and  loving,  does  He  not  make  an  end  of  evil 
at  once?  Yet,  because  such  questions  are  un- 
answerable by  the  wisest,  the  child  is,  for  the 
convenience  of  his  education,  made  to  feel 
that  he  is  wicked  if  he  questions  what  he  is 
taught.  How  many  children  will  persevere 
in  the  innocent  scepticism  which  is  so  natural 
and  so  desirable,  under  a  sense  of  disapproval  ? 
One  of  my  own  earliest  experiences  in  the  ugly 
path  of  religious  gloom  was  that  I  recognised 
quite  clearly  to  myself  that  I  did  not  love  God 
at  all.  I  did  not  know  Him,  I  had  no  reason 
to  think  Him  kind;  He  was  angry  with  me,  I 
gathered,  if  I  was  ill-tempered  or  untruth- 
ful. I  was  well  enough  aware  by  childish  in- 
stinct that  my  mother  did  not  cease  to  love 
me  when  I  was  naughty,  but  I  could  not  tell 
about  God.  And  yet  I  knew  that,  with  His 
terrible  power  of  knowing  everything,  He  was 
well  aware  that  I  did  not  love  Him.  It  was 
best  to  forget  about  Him  as  much  as  possible, 
for  it  spoiled  one's  pleasure  to  think  about  it. 


39^  At  Large 

All  the  little  amusements  and  idle  businesses 
that  were  so  dear  to  me,  He  probably  disap- 
proved of  them  all,  and  was  only  satisfied  when 
I  was  safe  at  my  lessons  or  immured  in  church. 
Sunday  was  the  sort  of  day  He  liked,  and 
how  I  detested  it! — the  toys  put  away,  little 
ugly  books  about  the  Holy  Land  to  read,  an 
air  of  deep  dreariness  about  it  all.  Thus  does 
religion  become  a  weariness  from  the  outset. 
How  slowly,  and  after  what  strange  experi- 
ence, by  what  infinite  delay  of  deduction,  does 
the  love  of  God  dawn  upon  the  soul!  Even 
then  how  faint  and  subtle  an  essence  it  is! 
In  deep  anxiety,  under  unbearable  strain,  in 
the  grip  of  a  dilemma  of  which  either  issue 
seems  intolerable,  in  weariness  of  life,  in  hours 
of  flagging  vitality,  the  mighty  tide  begins  to 
flow  strongly  and  tranquilly  into  the  soul. 
One  did  not  make  oneself;  one  did  not  make 
one's  sorrows,  even  when  they  arose  from  one's 
own  weakness  and  perversity.  There  was 
a  meaning,  a  significance  about  it  all;  one 
was  indeed  on  pilgrimage;  and  then  comes 
the  running  to  the  Father's  knee,  and  the  cast- 
ing oneself  in  utter  broken  weakness  upon 
the  one  Heart  that  understands  perfectly  and 


The  Love  of  God  399 

utterly,  and  which  does,  which  must,  desire  the 
best  and  truest.  "  Give  me  courage,  hope,  con- 
fidence," says  the  desolate  soul. 

"  I  can  endure  Thy  bitterest  decrees. 
If  certain  of  Thy  Love." 

How  would  one  amend  all  this  if  one  had 
the  power?  Alas!  it  could  only  be  by  silenc- 
ing all  stupid  and  clumsy  people,  all  rigid 
parents,  all  diplomatic  priests,  all  the  horrible 
natures  who  lick  their  lips  with  a  fierce  zest 
over  the  pains  that  befall  the  men  with  whom 
they  do  not  agree.  I  would  teach  a  child,  in 
defiance  even  of  reason,  that  God  is  the  one 
Power  that  loves  and  understands  him  through 
thick  and  thin;  that  He  punishes  with  an- 
guish and  sorrow;  that  He  exults  in  forgive- 
ness and  mercy;  that  He  rejoices  in  innocent 
happiness;  that  He  loves  courage,  and  bright- 
ness, and  kindness,  and  cheerful  self-sacrifice; 
that  things  mean,  and  vile,  and  impure,  and 
cruel,  are  things  that  He  does  not  love  to 
punish,  but  sad  and  soiling  stains  that  He 
beholds  with  shame  and  tears.  This,  it  seems 
to  me,  is  the  Gospel  teaching  about  God,  im- 
possible only  because  of  the  hardness  of  our 


400  At  Large 

hearts.  Bnt  if  it  were  possible,  a  child  might 
grow  to  feel  about  sin,  not  that  it  was  a  hor- 
rible and  unpardonable  failure,  a  thing  to 
afflict  oneself  drearily  about,  but  that  it  was 
rather  a  thing  which,  when  once  spurned, 
however  humiliating,  could  minister  to  pro- 
gress, in  a  way  in  which  untroubled  happiness 
could  not  operate — to  be  forgotten,  perhaps, 
but  certainly  to  be  forgiven;  a  privilege  rather 
tban  a  hindrance,  a  gate  rather  than  a  bar- 
rier; a  shadow  upon  the  path,  out  of  which 
one  would  pass,  with  such  speed  as  one  might, 
into  the  blitheness  of  the  free  air  and  the  warm 
sun.  I  remember  a  terrible  lecture  which  I 
heard  as  a  little  bewildered  boy  at  school, 
anxious  to  do  right,  terrified  of  oppression, 
and  coldness,  and  evil  alike;  given  by  a  worthy 
Evangelical  clergyman,  with  large  spectacles, 
and  a  hollow  voice,  and  a  great  relish  for 
spiritual  terrors.  The  subject  was  "  the  ex- 
ceeding sinfulness  of  sin,"  a  proposition 
which  I  now  see  to  be  as  true  as  if  one  lectured 
on  the  exceeding  carnality  of  flesh.  But  the 
lecture  spoke  of  the  horrible  and  filthy  cor- 
ruption of  the  human  heart,  its  determined 
delight   in    wallowing   in    evil,   its    desperate 


The  Love  of  God  401 

wickedness.  I  believed  it,  dully  and  hope- 
lessly, as  a  boy  believes  what  is  told  him  by 
a  voluble  elderly  person  of  obvious  respecta- 
bility. But  what  a  detestable  theory  of  life, 
what  an  ugly  picture  of  Divine  incompetence! 

Of  course  there  are  abundance  of  facts  in 
the  world  which  look  like  anything  but 
love; — the  ruthless  and  merciless  punishment 
of  carelessness  and  ignorance,  the  dark  laws  of 
heredity,  the  wastefulness  and  cruelty  of 
disease,  the  dismal  acquiescence  of  stupid, 
healthy,  virtuous  persons,  without  sympathy 
or  imagination,  in  the  hardships  which  they 
were  strong  enough  to  bear  unscathed.  One 
of  the  prime  terrors  of  religion  is  the  thought 
of  the  heavy-handed,  unintelligent,  tiresome 
men  who  would  make  it  a  monopoly  if  they 
could,  and  bear  it  triumphantly  away  from 
the  hands  of  modest,  humble,  quiet,  and  ten- 
der-hearted people,  chiding  them  as  nebulous 
optimists. 

Who  are  the  people  in  this  short  life  of  ours 
whom  one  remembers  with  deep  and  abiding 
gratitude?  Not  those  who  have  rebuked,  and 
punished,  and  satirised,  and  humiliated  us, 
striking  down  the  stricken,  and  flattening  tJie 

*6 


402  At  Large 

prostrate — but  the  people  who  have  been  pa- 
tient with  us,  and  kind,  who  have  believed  in 
us,  and  comforted  us,  and  welcomed  us,  and 
forgiven  us  everything;  who  have  given  us 
largely  of  their  love,  who  have  lent  without 
requiring  payment,  who  have  given  us  emo- 
tional rather  than  prudential  reasons;  who 
have  cared  for  us,  not  as  a  duty  but  by  some 
divine  instinct;  who  have  made  endless  excuses 
for  us,  believing  that  the  true  self  was  there 
and  would  emerge;  who  have  pardoned  our 
misdeeds  and  forgotten  our  meannesses. 

This  is  what  I  would  believe  of  God — that 
He  is  not  our  censorious  and  severe  critic, 
but  our  champion  and  lover,  not  loving  us  in 
spite  of  what  we  are,  but  because  of  what  we 
are;  who  in  the  days  of  our  strength  rejoices 
in  our  joy,  and  does  not  wish  to  overshadow 
it,  like  the  conscientious  human  mentor,  with 
considerations  that  we  must  yet  be  withered 
like  grass;  and  who,  when  the  youthful  ebul- 
lience dies  away,  and  the  spring  grows  weak, 
and  we  wonder  why  the  zest  has  died  out  of 
simple  pleasures,  out  of  agreeable  noise  and 
stir,  is  still  with  us,  reminding  us  that  the 
wisdom  we  are  painfully  and  surely  gaining 


I 


The  Love  of  God  403 

is  a  deeper  and  more  lasting  quality  than  even 
the  hot  impulses  of  youth. 

Once  in  my  life  have  I  conceived  what  might 
have  been,  if  I  had  had  the  skill  to  paint  it, 
an  immortal  picture.  It  was  thus:  I  was 
attending  a  Christmas  morning  service  in  a 
big  parish  church.  I  was  in  a  pew  facing  east ; 
close  to  me,  in  a  transept,  in  a  pew  facing 
sideways,  there  sat  a  little  old  woman,  who 
had  hurried  in  just  before  the  service  began. 
She  was  a  widow,  living,  I  afterwards  learned, 
in  an  almshouse  hard  by.  She  was  old  and 
feeble,  very  poor,  and  her  life  had  been  a 
series  of  calamities,  relieved  upon  a  back- 
ground of  the  hardest  and  humblest  drudgery. 
She  had  lost  her  husband  years  ago  by  a  pain- 
ful and  terrible  illneSs.  She  had  lost  her 
children  one  by  one;  she  was  alone  in  the 
world,  save  for  a  few  distant  and  indifferent 
relatives.  To  get  into  the  almshouse  had  been 
for  her  a  stroke  of  incredible  and  inconceiv- 
able good  fortune.  She  had  a  single  room, 
with  a  tiny  kitchen  off  it.  She  had  very  little 
to  say  for  herself;  she  could  hardly  read.  No 
one  took  any  particular  interest  in  her;  but 
she  was  a  kindly,  gallant,  unselfish  old  soul, 


404  At  Large 

always  ready  to  bear  a  hand,  full  of  gratitude 
for  the  kindnesses  she  had  received — and  God 
alone  knows  how  few  they  had  been. 

She  had  a  small,  ugly,  homely  face,  with- 
ered and  gnarled  hands;  and  she  was  dressed 
that  day  in  a  little  old  bonnet  of  unheard-of 
age,  and  in  dingy,  frowsy  black  clothes,  shiny 
and  creased,  that  came  out  of  their  box  per- 
haps half-a-dozen  times  a  year. 

But  this  morning  she  was  in  a  festal  mood. 
She  had  tidied  up  her  little  room;  she  was  go- 
ing to  have  a  bit  of  meat  for  dinner,  given 
her  by  a  neighbour.  She  had  been  sent  a 
Christmas  card  that  morning,  and  had  pored 
over  it  with  delight.  She  liked  the  stir  and 
company  of  the  church,  and  the  cheerful  air 
of  the  holly-berries.  She  held  her  book  up 
before  her,  though  I  do  not  suppose  she  was 
even  at  the  right  page.  She  kept  up  a  little 
faint  cracked  singing  in  her  thin  old  voice ;  but 
when  they  came  to  the  hymn  "  Hark,  the  her- 
ald angels  sing,"  which  she  had  always  known 
from  childhood,  she  lifted  up  her  head  and 
sang  more  courageously: 

"Join  the  triumph  of  the  skies  I 
With  the  angelic  host  proclaim, 
Christ  is  bom  in   Bethlehem !  " 


The  Love  of  God  405 

It  was  then  that  I  had  my  vision.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  at  the  sight  of  the  wrinkled 
face  and  the  sound  of  the  plaintive  uplifted 
voice,  singing  such  words,  a  Sudden  mist  of 
tears  came  over  my  eyes.  Then  I  saw  that 
close  behind  the  old  dame  there  stood  a  very 
young  and  beautiful  man.  I  could  see  the 
fresh  curling  hair  thrown  back  from  the  clear 
brow.  He  was  clothed  in  a  dim  robe,  of  an 
opalescent  hue  and  misty  texture,  and  his 
hands  were  clasped  together.  It  seemed  that 
he  sang  too;  but  his  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
old  woman  with  a  look,  half  of  tender  amuse- 
ment, and  half  of  unutterable  lovingness. 
The  angelic  host !  This  was  one  of  that  bright 
company  indeed,  going  about  the  Father's 
business,  bringing  a  joyful  peace  into  the 
hearts  of  those  among  whom  he  moved.  And 
of  all  the  worshippers  in  that  orowded  church 
he  had  singled  out  the  humblest  and  simplest 
for  his  friend  and  sister.  I  saw  no  more  that 
day,  for  the  lines  of  that  presence  faded  out 
upon  the  air  in  the  gleams  of  the  frosty  sun- 
shine that  came  and  went  among  the  pillars. 
But  if  I  could  have  painted  the  scene,  the 
pure,   untroubled   face   so   close   to   the   old. 


4o6  At  Large 

worn  features,  the  robes  of  light  side  by  side 
with  the  dingy  human  vesture,  it  would  be  a 
picture  that  no  living  eye  that  had  rested 
on  it  should  forget. 

Alas,  that  one  cannot  live  in  moments  of 
inspiration  like  these!  As  life  goes  on,  and 
as  we  begin  perhaps  to  grow  a  little  nearer 
to  God  by  faith,  we  are  confronted  in  our  own 
lives,  or  in  the  life  of  one  very  near  us,  by 
some  intolerable  and  shameful  catastrophe. 
A  careless  sin  makes  havoc  of  a  life,  and  shad- 
ows a  home  with  shame;  or  some  generous 
or  unselfish  nature,  useful,  beneficent,  urgently 
needed,  is  struck  down  with  a  painful 
and  hopeless  malady.  This,  too,  we  say  to 
ourselves,  must  come  from  God;  He  might 
have  prevented  it  if  He  had  so  willed.  What 
are  we  to  make  of  it?  How  are  we  to  trans- 
late into  terms  of  love  what  seems  like  an  act 
of  tyrannous  indifference,  or  deliberate  cruelty? 
Then,  I  think,  it  is  well  to  remind  ourselves 
that  we  can  never  know  exactly  the  conditions 
of  any  other  human  soul.  How  little  we  know 
of  our  own!  How  little  we  could  explain  our 
case  to  another,  even  if  we  were  utterly  sin- 
cere!   The    weaknesses    of    our    nature    are 


The  Love  of  God  407 

often,  very  tenderly  I  would  believe,  hidden 
from  us;  we  think  ourselves  sensitive  and 
weak,  when  in  reality  we  are  armed  with 
a  stubborn  breastplate  of  complacency  and 
pride;  or  we  think  ourselves  strong,  only  be- 
cause the  blows  of  circumstance  have  been 
spared  us.  The  more  one  knows  of  the  most 
afflicted  lives,  the  more  often  the  conviction 
flashes  across  us  that  the  affliction  is  not  a 
wanton  outrage,  but  a  delicately  adjusted 
treatment.  I  remember  once  that  a  friend  of 
mine  had  sent  him  a  rare  plant,  which  was  set 
in  a  big  flower-pot,  close  to  a  fountain-basin. 
It  never  throve;  it  lived  indeed,  putting  out 
in  the  spring  a  delicate  stunted  foliage,  though 
my  friend,  who  was  a  careful  gardener,  could 
never  divine  what  ailed  it.  He  was  away  for 
a  few  weeks,  and  the  day  after  he  was  gone, 
the  flower-pot  was  broken  by  a  careless  garden- 
boy,  who  wheeled  a  barrow  roughly  past  it; 
the  plant,  earth  and  all,  fell  into  the  water; 
the  boy  removed  the  broken  pieces  of  the 
pot,  and  seeing  that  the  plant  had  sunk  to 
the  bottom  of  the  little  pool,  never  troubled 
his  head  to  fish  it  out.  When  my  friend  re- 
turned, he  noticed  one  day  in  the  fountain  a 


4o8  At  Large 

new  and  luxuriant  growth  of  some  unknown 
plant.  He  made  careful  inquiries  and  found 
out  what  had  happened.  It  then  came  out 
that  the  plant  was  in  reality  a  water-plant, 
and  that  it  had  pined  away  in  the  stifling  air 
for  want  of  nourishment,  perhaps  dimly  long- 
ing for  the  fresh  bed  of  the  pool. 

Even  so  has  it  been,  times  without  number, 
with  some  starving  and  thirsty  soul,  that  has 
gone  on  feebly  trying  to  live  a  maimed  life, 
shut  up  in  itself,  ailing,  feeble.  There  has 
descended  upon  it  what  looks  at  first  sight  like 
a  calamity,  some  affliction  unaccountable  and 
irreparable;  and  then  it  proves  that  this  was 
the  one  thing  needed ;  that  sorrow  has  brought 
out  some  latent  unselfishness,  or  suffering 
energised  some  unused  faculty  of  strength  and 
patience. 

But  even  if  it  is  not  so,  if  we  cannot  trace 
in  our  own  lives  or  the  lives  of  others  the  bene- 
ficent influence  of  suffering,  we  can  always 
take  refuge  in  one  thought.  We  can  see  that 
the  one  mighty  and  transforming  power  on 
earth  is  the  power  of  love;  we  see  people  make 
sacrifices,  not  momentary  sacrifices,  but  life- 
long  patient   renunciations,   for   the   sake   of 


The  Love  of  God  409 

one  whom  they  love;  we  see  a  great  and  pas- 
sionate affection  touch  into  being  a  whole 
range  of  unsuspected  powers;  we  see  men  and 
women  utterly  unconscious  of  pain  and  weari- 
ness, utterly  unaware  that  they  are  acting 
without  a  thought  of  self,  if  they  can  but 
soothe  the  pain  of  one  dear  to  them,  or  win  a 
smile  from  beloved  lips;  it  is  not  that  the  self- 
ishness, the  indolence,  is  not  there,  but  it  is 
all  borne  away  upon  a  mighty  stream,  as  the 
river-wrack  spins  upon  the  rising  flood. 

If  then  this  marvellous,  this  amazing  power 
of  love  can  cause  men  to  make,  with  joy  and 
gladness,  sacrifices  of  which  in  their  loveless 
days  they  would  have  deemed  themselves  and 
confessed  themselves  wholly  incapable,  can 
we  not  feel  with  confidence  that  the  power, 
which  lies  thus  deepest  in  the  heart  of  the 
world,  lies  also  deepest  in  the  heart  of  God,  of 
whom  the  world  is  but  a  faint  reflection?  It 
cannot  be  otherwise.  We  may  sadly  ponder, 
indeed,  why  the  love  that  has  been,  or  that 
might  have  been,  the  strength  of  weary  lives 
should  be  withdrawn  or  sternly  withheld,  but 
we  need  not  be  afraid,  if  we  have  one  gener- 
ous impulse  for  another,  if  we  ever  put  aside 


4IO  At  Large 

a  delight  that  may  please  or  attract  us,  for 
the  sake  of  one  who  expects  or  would  value 
any  smallest  service — and  there  are  few  who 
cannot  feel  this, — we  need  not  then,  I  say, 
doubt  that  the  love  which  we  desire,  and 
which  we  have  somehow  missed  or  lost,  is 
there  waiting  for  us,  ours  all  the  time,  if  we 
but  knew  it. 

And  even  if  we  miss  the  sweet  influence  of 
love  in  our  lives,  is  there  anyone  who  has  not, 
in  solitude  and  dreariness,  looked  back  upon 
the  time  when  he  was  surrounded  by  love  and 
opportunities  of  love,  in  childhood  or  in  youth, 
with  a  bitter  regret  that  he  did  not  make  more 
of  it  when  it  was  so  near  to  him,  that  he  was 
so  blind  and  selfish,  that  he  was  not  a  little 
more  tender,  a  little  more  kind?  I  will  speak 
frankly  for  myself  and  say  that  the  memories 
which  hurt  me  most,  when  I  stumble  upon  them, 
are  those  of  the  small  occasions  when  I  showed 
myself  perverse  and  hard;  when  eyes,  long 
since  closed,  looked  at  me  with  a  pathetic 
expectancy;  when  I  warded  off  the  loving  im- 
pulse by  some  jealous  sense  of  my  own  rights, 
some  peevish  anger  at  a  fancied  injustice; 
when    I    stifled   the   smile,   and   withheld   the 


The  Love  of  God  4" 

hand,  and  turned  away  in  silence,  glad,  in 
that  poisonous  moment,  to  feel  that  I  could 
at  all  events  inflict  that  pain  in  base  requital. 
One  may  know  that  it  is  all  forgiven,  one  may 
be  sure  that  the  misunderstanding  has  faded 
in  the  light  of  the  other  dawn,  but  still  the 
cold  base  shadow,  the  thought  of  one's  per- 
verse cruelty,  strikes  a  gloom  upon  the  mind. 

But  with  God,  when  one  once  begins  to  draw 
near  to  Him,  one  need  have  no  such  poignant 
regrets  or  overshadowing  memories;  one  may 
say  to  Him  in  one's  heart,  as  simply  as  a 
child,  that  He  knows  what  one  has  been  and 
is,  what  one  might  have  been  and  what  one 
desires  to  be;  and  one  may  cast  oneself  at 
His  feet  in  the  overwhelming  hope  that  He 
will  make  of  oneself  what  He  would  have  one 
to  be. 

In  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  it  is  not 
the  poor  wretch  himself,  whose  miserable 
motive  for  returning  is  plainly  indicated — 
that  instead  of  pining  in  cold  and  hunger  he 
may  be  warmed  and  clothed, — who  is  the  hero 
of  the  story;  still  less  is  it  the  hard  and  virtu- 
ous elder  son.  The  hero  of  the  tale  is  the  pa- 
tient, tolerant,  loving  father,  who  had  acted,  as 


412  At  Large 

a  censorious  critic  might  say,  foolishly  and 
culpably,  in  supplying  the  dissolute  boy  with 
resources,  and  taking  him  back  without  a  word 
of  just  reproach.  A  sad  lack  of  moral  disci- 
pline, no  doubt!  If  he  had  kept  the  boy  in 
fear  and  godliness,  if  he  had  tied  him  down 
to  honest  work,  the  disaster  need  never  have 
happened.  Yet  the  old  man,  who  went  so 
often  at  sundown,  we  may  think,  to  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  from  which  he  could  see  the  long 
road  winding  over  the  plain  to  the  far-off  city, 
the  road  by  which  he  had  seen  his  son  depart, 
light-heartedly  and  full  of  fierce  joyful  im- 
pulses, and  along  which  he  was  to  see  the  de- 
jected figure,  so  familiar,  so  sadly  marred, 
stumbling  home — he  is  the  master-spirit  of  the 
sweet  and  comforting  scene.  His  heart  is  full 
of  utter  gladness,  for  the  lost  is  found.  He 
smiles  upon  the  servants;  he  bids  the  house- 
hold rejoice;  he  can  hardly,  in  his  simple  joy 
of  heart,  believe  that  the  froward  elder  brother 
is  vexed  and  displeased;  and  his  words  of  en- 
treaty that  the  brother,  too,  will  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  hour,  are  some  of  the  most  pa- 
thetic and  beautiful  ever  framed  in  human 
speech :  "  Son,  thou  art  ever  with  me,  and  all 


The  Love  of  God  413 

that  I  have  is  thine;  it  was  meet  that  we 
should  make  merry,  and  be  glad:  for  this  thy 
brother  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again,  and  was 
lost,  and  is  found." 

And  this  is,  after  all,  the  way  in  which  God 
deals  with  us.  He  gives  us  our  portion  to 
spend  as  we  choose;  He  holds  nothing  back; 
and  when  we  have  wasted  it  and  brought  mis- 
ery upon  ourselves,  and  return  to  Him,  even 
fop  the  worst  of  reasons.  He  has  not  a  word 
of  rebuke  or  caution ;  He  is  simply  and  utterly 
filled  with  joy  and  love.  There  are  a  thousand 
texts  that  would  discourage  us,  would  bid  us 
believe  that  God  deals  hardly  with  us,  but 
it  is  men  that  deal  hardly  with  us,  it  is  wo 
that  deal  hardly  with  ourselves.  This  story, 
which  is  surely  the  most  beautiful  story  in  the 
world,  gives  us  the  deliberate  thought  of  the 
Saviour,  the  essence  of  His  teaching;  and  we 
may  fling  aside  the  bitter  warnings  of  jealous 
minds,  and  cast  ourselves  upon  the  supreme 
hope  that,  if  only  we  will  return,  we  are  dealt 
with  even  more  joyfully  than  if  we  had  never 
wandered  at  all. 

And  then  perhaps  at  last,  when  we  have 
peeped  again  and  again,  through  loss  and  suf- 


414  At  Large 

fering,  at  the  dark  background  of  life;  when 
we  have  seen  the  dreariest  corner  of  the 
lonely  roadj  where  the  path  grows  steep  and 
miry,  and  the  light  is  veiled  by  scudding  cloud 
and  dripping  rain,  there  begins  to  dawn  upon 
us  the  sense  of  a  beautiful  and  holy  patience, 
the  thought  that  these  grey  ashes  of  life,  in 
which  Ihe  glowing  cinders  sink,  which  once 
were  bright  with  leaping  flame,  are  not  the 
end — that  the  flame  and  glow  are  there,  al- 
though momently  dispersed.  They  have  done 
their  work;  one  is  warmed  and  enlivened;  one 
can  sit  still,  feeding  one's  fancy  on  the  laps- 
ing embers,  just  as  one  saw  pictures  in  the  fire 
as  an  eager  child  long  ago.  That  high-hearted 
excitement  and  that  curiosity  have  faded. 
Life  is  very  different  from  what  we  expected, 
more  wholesome,  more  marvellous,  more  brief, 
more  inconclusive;  but  there  is  an  intenser, 
if  quieter  and  more  patient,  curiosity  to  wait 
and  see  what  God  is  doing  for  us;  and  the 
orange-stain  and  green  glow  of  the  sunset, 
though  colder  and  less  jocund,  is  yet  a  far 
more  mysterious,  tender,  and  beautiful  thing 
than  the  steady  glow  of  the  noonday  sun, 
when    the    shining    flies    darted    hither    and 


The  Love  of  God  415 

thither,  and  the  roses  sent  out  their  rich  fra- 
grance. There  is  fragrance  still,  the  fragrance 
Df  the  evening  flowers,  where  the  western  win- 
dows look  across  the  misty  fields,  to  the 
thickening  shadows  of  the  tall  trees.  But 
there  is  something  that  speaks  in  the  gather- 
ing gloom,  in  the  darkening  sky  with  its  flush 
of  crimson  fire,  that  did  not  speak  in  the  sun- 
warmed  garden  and  the  dancing  leaves;  and 
what  speaks  is  the  mysterious  love  of  God,  a 
thing  sweeter  and  more  remote  than  the  urgent 
bliss  of  the  fiery  noon,  full  of  delicate  mys- 
teries and  appealing  echoes.  We  have  learned 
that  the  darkness  is  no  darkness  with  Him; 
and  the  soul  which  beat  her  wings  so  passion- 
ately in  the  brighter  light  of  the  hot  morn- 
ing, now  at  last  begins  to  dream  of  whither 
she  is  bound,  and  the  dear  shade  where  she 
will  fold  her  weary  wing. 

How  often  has  the  soul  in  her  dreariness 
cried  out,  "  One  effort  more ! "  But  that  is 
done  with  forever.  She  is  patient  now;  she 
believes  at  last;  she  labours  no  longer  at  the 
oar,  but  she  is  borne  upon  the  moving  tide; 
she  is  on  her  way  to  the  deep  Heart  of  God. 


Epilogue 

T  HAVE  wandered  far  enough  in  my  thought, 
*  it  would  seem,  from  the  lonely  grange  in 
its  wide  pastures,  and  the  calm  expanse  of 
fen;  and  I  should  wish  once  more  to  bring  my 
reader  back  home  with  me  to  the  sheltered 
garden,  and  the  orchard  knee-deep  in  grass, 
and  the  embowering  elms;  for  there  is  one 
word  more  to  be  said,  and  that  may  be  best 
said  at  home;  though  our  experience  is  not 
limited  by  time  or  place.  It  was  on  the  lonely 
ridge,  strewn  with  boulders  and  swept  by 
night-winds,  when  the  darkness  closed  in 
drearily  about  him,  that  Jacob,  a  homeless 
exile,  in  the  hour  of  his  utmost  desolation,  saw 
the  ladder  whose  golden  head  was  set  at  the 
very  foot  of  God,  thronged  with  bright  mes- 
sengers of  strength  and  hope.  And  again  it 
was  in  the  familiar  homestead,  with  every 
corner  rich  in  gentle  memories,  that  the  spirit 
of  terror  turned  the  bitter  stream  of  anguish, 

416 


Epilogue  417 

as  from  the  vent  of  some  thunderous  cloud, 
upon  the  sad  head  of  Job.  We  may  turn  a 
corner  in  life,  and  be  confronted  perhaps  with 
an  uncertain  shape  of  grief  and  despair,  whom 
we  would  fain  banish  from  our  shuddering 
sight,  perhaps  with  some  solemn  form  of 
heavenly  radiance,  whom  we  may  feel  reluc- 
tant in  our  unworthiness  to  entertain.  But  in 
either  case,  such  times  as  those,  when  we 
wrestle  all  night  with  the  angel,  not  knowing 
if  he  wishes  us  well  or  ill,  ignorant  of  his 
name  and  his  mien  alike,  are  better  than  hours 
spent  in  indolent  contentment,  in  the  realisa- 
tion of  our  placid  and  petty  designs.  For, 
after  all,  it  is  the  quality  rather  than  the 
quantity  of  our  experience  that  matters;  it  is 
easy  enough  to  recognise  that,  when  we  are 
working  light-heartedly  and  eagerly  at  some 
brave  design,  and  seeing  the  seed  we  plant 
springing  up  all  about  us  in  fertile  rows  in  the 
garden  of  God.  But  what  of  those  days  when 
our  lot  seems  only  to  endure,  when  we  can 
neither  scheme  nor  execute,  when  the  old  volu- 
bility and  vitality  desert  us,  and  our  one  care 
is  just  to  make  our  dreary  presence  as  little 
of  a  burden  and  a  shadow  as  possible  to  those 

a? 


41 8  At  Large 

whom  we  love?  We  must  then  remind  our- 
selves, not  once  or  twice,  that  nothing  can 
separate  us  from  the  Father  of  all,  even  though 
our  own  wilfulness  and  perversity  may  have 
drawn  about  us  a  cloud  of  sorrow.  We  are 
perhaps  most  in  God's  mind  when  we  seem 
most  withdrawn  from  Him.  He  is  nearer  us 
when  we  seek  for  Him  and  cannot  find  Him, 
than  when  we  forget  Him  in  laughter  and 
self-pleasing.  And  we  must  remember  too 
that  it  is  neither  faithful  nor  fruitful  to  abide 
wilfully  in  sadness,  to  clasp  our  cares  close, 
to  luxuriate  in  them.  There  is  a  beautiful 
story  of  Mrs.  Charles  Kingsley,  who  long  sur- 
vived her  husband.  Never  perhaps  had  two 
souls  been  united  by  so  close  a  bond  of  chiv- 
alry and  devotion.  "  Whenever  I  find  myself 
thinking  too  much  about  Charles,"  she  said 
in  the  days  of  her  grief,  "  I  find  and  read  the 
most  sensational  novel  I  can.  People  may 
think  it  heartless,  but  hearts  were  given  us  to 
love  with,  not  to  break."  And  we  must  deal 
with  our  sorrows  as  we  deal  with  any  other 
gift  of  God,  courageously  and  temperately,  not 
faint-heartedly  or  wilfully;  not  otherwise  can 
they  be  blest  to  us.    We  must  not  pettishly 


Epilogue  419 

reject  consolation  and  distraction.  Pain  is  a 
great  angel,  but  we  must  wrestle  with  him, 
until  he  bless  us!  and  the  blessings  he  can 
bring  us  are  first  a  wholesome  shame  at  our 
old  selfish  ingratitude  in  the  untroubled  days, 
when  we  took  care  and  pleasure  greedily;  and 
next,  if  we  meet  him  faithfully,  he  can  make 
our  heart  go  out  to  all  our  brothers  and  sis- 
ters who  suffer  in  this  brief  and  troubled  life 
of  ours.  For  we  are  here  to  learn  something, 
if  we  can  but  spell  it  out;  and  thus  it  is  mor- 
bid to  indulge  regrets  and  remorse  too  much 
over  our  failures  and  mistakes;  for  it  is 
through  them  that  we  learn.  We  must  be  as 
brave  as  we  can,  and  dare  to  grudge  no  pang 
that  brings  us  nearer  to  the  reality  of  things. 
Reality!  that  is  the  secret;  for  we  who  live 
in  dreams,  who  pursue  beauty,  who  are 
haunted  as  by  a  passion  for  that  sweet  quality 
that  thrills  alike  in  the  wayside  flower  and  the 
orange  pomp  of  the  setting  sun,  that  throbs 
in  written  word  and  uttered  melody,  that  calls 
to  us  suddenly  and  secretly  in  the  glance  of 
an  eye  and  the  gesture  of  a  hand, — we,  I  say, 
who  discern  these  gracious  motions,  tend  to 
live  in  them  too  luxuriously,  to  idealise  life,  to 


420  At  Large 

make  out  of  our  daily  pilgrimage,  our  goings 
and  comings,  a  golden  untroubled  picture;  it 
need  not  be  a  false  or  a  base  effort  to  escape 
from  what  is  sordid  or  distasteful;  but  for 
all  that  we  run  a  sore  risk  in  yielding  too 
placidly  to  our  visions;  and,  as  with  the  Lady 
of  Shalott,  it  may  be  well  for  us  if  our  woven 
web  be  rent  aside,  and  our  magic  mirror 
broken;  nay,  even  if  death  comes  to  us  at  the 
close  of  the  mournful  song.  Thus  then  we 
draw  near  and  look  reluctant  and  dismayed 
into  the  bare  truth  of  things.  We  see,  it 
may  be,  our  poor  pretences  tossed  aside,  and 
the  embroidered  robe  in  which  we  have  striven 
to  drape  our  leanness  torn  from  us;  but  we 
must  gaze  as  steadily  as  we  can,  and  pray  that 
the  vision  be  not  withdrawn  till  it  has  wrought 
its  perfect  work  within  us;  and  then,  with 
energies  renewed,  we  may  set  out  again  on 
pilgrimage,  happy  in  this,  that  we  no  longer 
mistake  the  arbour  of  refreshment  for  the  goal 
of  our  journey,  or  the  quiet  house  of  welcome, 
that  receives  us  in  the  hour  of  weariness,  for 
the  heavenly  city,  with  all  its  bright  mansions 
and  radiant  palaces. 

It  is  experience  that  matters,  as  I  have  said ; 


Epilogue  42 1 

not  what  we  do,  but  how  we  do  it.  The  ma- 
terial things  that  we  collect  about  us  in  our 
passage  through  life,  that  we  cling  to  so  pa- 
thetically, and  into  which  something  of  our 
very  selves  seems  to  pass,  these  things  are 
little  else  than  snares  and  hindrances  to  our 
progress — like  the  clay  that  sticks  to  the  feet 
of  the  traveller,  like  the  burden  of  useless 
things  that  he  carries  painfully  with  him, 
things  which  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  throw 
away  because  they  might  possibly  turn  out  to 
be  useful,  and  which  meanwhile  clank  and 
clatter  fruitlessly  about  the  laden  beast,  and 
weigh  him  down.  What  we  have  rather  to  do 
is  to  disengage  ourselves  from  these  things: 
from  the  money  which  we  do  not  need,  but 
which  may  help  us  some  day;  from  the  luxu- 
ries we  do  not  enjoy;  from  the  furniture  we 
trail  about  with  us  from  home  to  home.  All 
those  things  get  a  hold  of  us  and  tie  us  to 
earth,  even  when  the  associations  with  them 
are  dear  and  tender  enough.  The  mistake  we 
make  is  not  in  loving  them — they  are  or  can 
be  signs  to  us  of  the  love  and  care  of  God — ^but 
we  must  refrain  from  loving  the  possession  of 
them. 


42  2  At  Large 

Take  for  instance  one  of  the  least  mundane 
of  things,  the  knowledge  we  painfully  acquire, 
and  the  possession  of  which  breeds  in  us  such 
lively  satisfaction.  If  it  is  our  duty  to  ac- 
quire knowledge  and  to  impart  it,  we  must 
acquire  it ;  but  it  is  the  faithfulness  with  which 
;we  toil,  not  the  accumulations  we  gain,  that 
is  blessed  to  us — "  knowledge  comes  but  wis- 
dom lingers,"  says  the  poet — and  it  is  the 
heavenly  wisdom  of  which  we  ought  to  be  in 
search;  for  what  remains  to  us  of  our  equip- 
ment, when  we  part  from  the  world  and  mi- 
grate elsewhere,  is  not  the  actual  stuflf  that 
we  have  collected,  whether  it  be  knowledge  or 
money,  but  the  patience,  the  diligence,  the 
care  which  we  have  exercised  in  gaining  these 
things,  the  character,  as  affected  by  the  work 
we  have  done;  but  our  mistake  is  to  feel  that 
we  are  idle  and  futile,  unless  we  have  tangible 
results  to  show;  when  perhaps  the  hours  in 
which  we  sat  idle,  out  of  misery  or  mere  feeble- 
ness, are  the  most  fruitful  hours  of  all  for  the 
growth  of  the  soul. 

The  great  savant  dies.  What  is  lost?  Not 
a  single  fact  or  a  single  truth,  but  only  his 
apprehension,  his  collection  of  certain  truths; 


Epilogue  423 

not  a  single  law  of  nature  perishes  or  is  altered 
thereby.  We  measure  worth  by  prominence 
and  fame;  but  the  destiny  of  the  simplest  and 
vilest  of  the  human  race  is  as  august,  as 
momentous  as  the  destiny  of  the  mightiest 
king  or  conqueror;  it  is  not  our  admiration 
of  each  other  that  weighs  with  God,  but  our 
nearness  to,  our  dependence  on  Him.  Yet, 
even  so,  we  must  not  deceive  ourselves  in  the 
matter.  We  must  be  sure  that  it  is  the  peace 
of  God  that  we  indeed  desire,  and  not  merely 
a  refined  kind  of  leisure ;  that  we  are  in  search 
of  simplicity,  and  not  merely  afraid  of  work. 
W^e  must  not  glorify  a  mild  spectatorial  pleas- 
ure by  the  name  of  philosophy,  or  excuse  our 
indolence  under  the  name  of  contemplation. 
We  must  abstain  deliberately,  not  tamely  hang 
back;  we  must  desire  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
for  itself,  and  not  for  the  sake  of  the  things 
that  are  added  if  we  seek  it.  If  the  Scribes 
and  Pharisees  have  their  reward  for  ambition 
and  self-seeking,  the  craven  soul  has  its  re- 
ward too,  and  that  reward  is  a  sick  emptiness 
of  spirit.  And  then  if  we  have  erred  thus, 
if  we  have  striven  to  pretend  to  ourselves  that 
we  were  careless  of  the  prize,  when  in  reality 


424  At  Large 

we  only  feared  the  battle,  what  can  we  do? 
How  can  we  repair  our  mistake?  There  is  but 
one  way;  we  can  own  the  pitiful  fault,  and 
not  attempt  to  glorify  it;  we  can  face  the 
experience,  take  our  petty  and  shameful  wages 
and  cast  ourselves  afresh,  in  our  humiliation 
and  weakness,  upon  God,  rejoicing  that  we 
can  at  least  feel  the  shame,  and  enduring  the 
chastisement  with  patient  hopefulness;  for 
that  very  suffering  is  a  sign  that  God  has  not 
left  us  to  ourselves,  but  is  giving  us  perforce 
the  purification  which  we  could  not  take  to 
ourselves. 

And  even  thus,  life  is  not  all  an  agony,  a 
battle,  an  endurance;  there  are  sweet  hours  of 
refreshment  and  tranquillity  between  the  twi- 
light and  the  dawn ;  hours  when  we  can  rest  a 
little  in  the  shadow,  and  see  the  brimming 
stream  of  life  flowing  quietly  but  surely  to  its 
appointed  end.  I  watched  to-day  an  old  shep- 
herd, on  a  wide  field,  moving  his  wattled 
hurdles,  one  by  one,  in  the  slow,  golden  after- 
noon; and  a  whole  burden  of  anxious  thoughts 
fell  off  me  for  a  while,  leaving  me  full  of  a 
quiet  hope  for  an  end  which  was  not  yet,  but 
that  certainly  awaited  me;  of  a  day  when  I  too 


Epilogue  425 

might  perhaps  move  as  unreflectingly,  as 
calmly,  in  harmony  with  the  everlasting  Will, 
as  the  old  man  moved  about  his  familiar  task. 
Why  that  harmony  should  be  so  blurred  and 
broken,  why  we  should  leave  undone  the  things 
that  we  desire  to  do,  and  do  the  things  that  we 
do  not  desire,  that  is  still  a  deep  and  sad  mys- 
tery; yet  even  in  the  hour  of  our  utmost  wil- 
fulnessj  we  can  never  wander  beyond  the  range 
of  the  Will  that  has  made  us,  and  bidden  us 
to  be  what  we  are.  And  thus  as  I  sit  in  this 
low-lit  hour,  there  steals  upon  the  heart  the 
message  of  hope  and  healing;  the  scent  of  the 
great  syringa  bush  leaning  out  into  the  twi- 
light, the  sound  of  the  fitful  breeze  laying 
here  and  there  a  caressing  hand  upon  the 
leaves,  the  soft  radiance  of  the  evening  star 
hung  in  the  green  spaces  of  the  western  sky, 
each  and  all  blending  into  incommunicable 
dreams. 

THE    END 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 

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Shelburne  Essays 

By  Paul  Elmer  More 

5  vols.     Crown  octavo. 
Each,  net,  $1.25.     (By  mail,  $1.35) 

Contents 

First  Series:  A  Hennit's  Notes  on  Thoreau — The  Soli- 
tude of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  —  The  Origins  of  Haw- 
thorne and  Poe — The  Influence  of  Emerson — The  Spirit 
of  Cariyle  —  The  Science  of  English  Verse  —  Arthur 
Symons :  The  Two  Illusions — The  Epic  of  Ireland — 
Two  Poets  of  the  Irish  Movement — Tolstoy ;  or.  The 
Ancient  Feud  between  Philosophy  and  Art — The  Re- 
ligious Ground  of  Humanitarianism. 

Second  Series  :  Elizabethan  Sonnets — Shakespeare's  Son- 
nets— Lafcadio  Hearn — The  First  Complete  Edition  of 
Hazlitt  —  Charles  Lamb  —  Kipling  and  FitzGerald  — 
George  Crabbe  —  The  Novels  of  George  Meredith  — 
Hawthorne:  Looking  before  and  after  —  Delphi  and 
Greek  Literature — Nemesis :  or,  The  Divine  Envy. 

Third  Series  :  The  Correspondence  of  William  Cowper — 
Whittier  the  Poet  —  The  Centenary  of  Sainte-Beuve — 
The  Scotch  Novels  and  Scotch  History — Swinburne — 
Christina  Rossetti — Why  is  Browning  Popular? — A  Note 
on  Byron's  "Don  Juan" — Laurence  Sterne — ^J.  Henry 
Shorthouse — The  Quest. 

Fourth  Series  :  The  Vicar  of  Morwenstow — Fanny  Bur- 
ney — A  Note  on  "  Daddy"  Crisp — George  Herbert — John 
Keats — Benjamin  Franklin — Charles  Lamb  Again — Walt 
Whitman — William  Blake — The  Theme  of  Paradise  Lost 
— The  Letters  of  Horace  Walpole. 

Fifth  Series  :  The  Greek  Anthology  —  The  Praise  of 
Dickens — George  Gissing — Mrs.  Gaskell — Philip  Freneau 
— Thoreau's  Journal — The  Centenary  of  Longfellow — ■ 
Donald  G.  Mitchell— James  Thomson  ("  B.  V.")— Ches, 
terfield — Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


A  Few  Press  Criticisms  on 
Shelburne  Essays 

••  It  is  *  pleasure  to  hail  in  Mr.  More  a  genuine  critic,  for 
genuine  critics  in  America  in  these  days  are  uncommonly 
scarce.  .  .  .  We  recommend,  as  a  sample  of  his  breadth, 
style,  acumen,  and  power  the  essay  on  Tolstoy  in  the  present 
volume.  That  represents  criticism  that  has  not  merely 
a  metropolitan  but  a  world  note.  .  .  .  One  is  thoroughly 
grateful  to  Mr.  More  for  the  high  quality  of  his  thought,  his 
serious  purpose,  and  his  excellent  style." — Harvard  Gradtt- 
ales'  Magazine. 

"We  do  not  know  of  any  one  now  writing  who  gives 
evidence  of  a  better  critical  equipment  than  Mr.  More.  It 
is  rare  nowadays  to  find  a  writer  so  thoroughly  familiar  with 
both  ancient  and  modem  thought.  It  is  this  width  of  view, 
this  intimate  acquaintance  with  so  much  of  the  best  that  has 
been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,  irrespective  of  local 
prejudice,  that  constitute  Mr.  More's  strength  as  a  critic. 
He  has  been  able  to  form  for  himself  a  sound  literary  canon 
and  a  sane  philosophy  of  life  which  constitute  to  our  mind 
his  peculiar  merit  as  a  critic." — Independent. 

"He  is  familiar  with  classical.  Oriental,  and  English 
literature;  he  uses  a  temperate,  lucid,  weighty,  and  not 
ungraceful  style  ;  he  is  aware  of  his  best  predecessors,  and  is 
apparently  on  the  way  to  a  set  of  philosophic  principles 
which  should  lead  him  to  a  high  and  perhaps  influential 
place  in  criticism.  .  .  .  We  believe  that  we  are  in  the 
presence  of  a  critic  who  must  be  counted  among  the  first  who 
take  literature  and  life  for  their  theme." — London  Speaker^ 


G.   P.   Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  London 


:>^  V:,.3> 


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